‘I’ve had more than my share already.’
Later, over coffee, Lana said, ‘I didn’t think you’d come back.’
‘It was only a half-term visit — I told you.’
‘Wasn’t your husband there?’
‘Briefly.’
‘I hoped once you were away from here, you’d come together.’
‘I’m afraid things have gone too far for that.’
The words stayed ominously in Kate’s mind for the rest of the day.
When she reached the Netherbys’ house, Madge greeted her warmly. ‘It’s ages since we’ve seen you, Kate. How are you?’
‘All right, thanks. Happy birthday.’ She proffered her parcel and Madge unwrapped it as excitedly as a child. It was a porcelain vase from the shelves of Pennyfarthings.
‘How lovely, Kate! Thank you so much, the colour’s perfect. Come and see what Paul’s given me.’
She flung open the dining-room door and stood to one side. Propped against the far wall was a large portrait of the Netherby children. They were laughing, their heads together, as lifelike as a mirror image. Except that the artist revealed more than a mirror, an indefinable essence of the children themselves. Kate stood immobile, aware of implications she had not yet grasped. Behind her, Madge said softly, ‘You know who painted it, don’t you?’
Yes, suddenly she knew. The artist could only be Sylvia Dane. It was a moment of truth and Kate wasn’t equal to it. Shame, relief, and understanding fused in her head, and to Madge’s consternation she burst into tears. Immediately Madge’s arm went round her.
‘Oh love, I’m sorry. Did it bring it all back? Come and have a drink. You’ll feel better in a moment.’
She led Kate to the kitchen where Paul, expressing concern, poured her a small brandy.
‘I didn’t know a thing about it,’ Madge was saying. ‘Paul supplied her with photos and she managed with only a couple of sittings.’ Kate recalled Sylvia explaining that very method.
‘We nearly let it slip a couple of times,’ Paul put in. ‘Like Sylvia knowing I’d been in Otterford the day of the murder. But my trusting little wife, bless her, merely assumed Henry’d told her.’ He laid his hand over Madge’s and smiled at her and Kate burned with shame for her own doubts of him.
‘Poor Sylvia,’ Paul continued. ‘Not knowing her love life was common knowledge, she thought I went to ridiculous lengths to conceal my visits. They could have been misconstrued, though. I collected the painting during a free period and sneaked it home when Madge was at the dentist. We never guessed it was the last thing she’d do.’
‘It’s beautiful, Paul,’ Kate said unsteadily. ‘A lovely thought and a lovely present.’ And to their surprise, she leaned over and kissed his cheek.
By the time the children came through, Kate had regained her composure and with it a little of her faith in human nature. She must let Michael know her doubts of Paul were unfounded.
Intercepting her thought, Madge asked quietly, ‘Was Michael at his mother’s?’
‘Just for the weekend.’
‘And?’
Kate shook her head. Madge’s marriage was secure after all, but there’d been no improvement in her own.
Later that evening, as Kate was thinking of bed, the doorbell suddenly rang through the flat, shattering the peaceful calm. At once her heart set up its familiar, muffled beating and all the fears she’d tried to bury reared up to face her again. She eased herself out of her chair and stood listening, jumping as the impatient clarion sounded again. Swiftly she moved to the window, lifting the curtain aside, but the street was deserted and the broad sill hid anyone standing directly below.
Despairingly, Kate knew she must go down. It was worse to stand here wondering than to face what was below. Slowly she started down the stairs, pausing at the bend to peer ahead to the rectangle of glass in the front door. No one was outlined against it. Not the Chief Inspector, then, as she’d half-expected. Perhaps some passing youths had simply pressed her bell. Twice?
Eyes unwaveringly on the glass pane, Kate moved down the narrow hallway. A car whooshed past outside and its lights briefly raked the door. She had reached it now and stood motionless, every nerve geared to sounds from outside. There were none. Inch by inch she slid back the bolt and turned the key, guiding it with her fingers so that it did not clatter back. She had her hands on the knob and she started to turn it when laughing voices sounded in the distance. If people were about, she should be safe. In one swift movement she pulled the door open and then gasped as something soft and heavy which had been propped against it fell inwards onto her feet.
It was several long seconds before, in the uncertain light, Kate dared to bend down and look more closely. Heaped grotesquely in front of her lay a dead pigeon, the soft bloom of its feathers stained with blood. A label was tied round its neck and Kate knew its message with numb certainty. ‘For Delilah.’
Her frozen paralysis splintered; she tried with both hands to push the door shut but the soft unwieldy bundle was in the way. Sobbing, gasping, she continued to strain ineffectually against it until in desperation she steeled herself to push out the obstruction with her shoe. The bolt was beyond her rubbery fingers, but she turned the key before, shaking and stumbling, she fled back up the stairs to the telephone. No time for the directory. With maddening slowness the dial completed its full turn three times. ‘Police!’ she heard herself say. ‘Chief Inspector Webb. I must see him now!’
CHAPTER 19
Oh God, I never thought it would come to this. I wish I could stop, but I can’t. No one else will do it, and the purge must go on.
The police think they’re clever, but they’re on the wrong track. Suppose I went to Webb and said, ‘You fool! I did it!’? It would be worth it, to see his expression.
I’m very aware of expressions now. Sylvia Dane’s, for instance, so superior and condescending, though she’d the morals of an alley cat. And Mrs Forbes, as fresh and wholesome as her new bread, yet according to the paper she’d had three lovers in as many months.
I thought Kate Romilly was different, but I was wrong. She’s the same as the others and I can’t make exceptions. The sentence must be carried out.
CHAPTER 20
Webb said carefully, ‘I’m not trying to frighten you, Mrs Romilly. Every psycho in the country has fantasies about Delilah and this may not have any link with the murders. On the other hand, it could be the lead we’ve been waiting for. It’s a pity you didn’t report the earlier incidents.’
Kate’s eyes were large and frightened. ‘I was so sure it was those boys who’d pestered me.’
‘It still might be, but better safe than sorry. Can you think of anyone else who might try to frighten you?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s so pointless.’
‘Well, I’m going to get Miss Lucas over here. Till this is cleared up, she’ll be in the flat with you all the time. I’ll also arrange for an officer to keep watch outside and follow you at a distance when you leave the premises. What’s the matter?’
Kate was staring at him, her hands to her face. ‘I’ve just remembered, there was a man watching me. Or at least, he might have been. He was there several times, on a bench on the Green.’
‘When was that?’
‘About a month ago, I suppose.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
‘No. At first I used to look all the time, then I forgot about it.’
‘What kind of man was he?’ Wryly, Webb thought of the mythical redhead from Bristol.
‘I didn’t see him properly. He had thick dark hair and wore jeans. That’s all I can tell you. Lana said he was in his thirties.’
‘Miss Truscott saw him too?’
‘Yes, it was she who pointed him out. She’d seen him several times.’
‘And how often did you see him?’
‘Only the once, actually. Perhaps he realized we’d spotted him.’
‘Was this before or after you received
the first package?’
‘Soon after, because when I saw him I immediately thought of the moth.’
‘Nobody who looked similar came into the shop or contacted you out in the street?’ ‘No, no one.’
‘Right. From now on you’ll have police protection, but you must tell no one about it. No one, you understand?’ Kate nodded. ‘Can you impress that on your little boy without frightening him?’
‘I’ll try.’
Webb looked at her consideringly. At least she was now frightened herself, as he’d intended. He was appalled at the chances she’d been taking. Even the significance of the death’s-head moth had escaped her. She’d interpreted as youthful malice what might have been a serious death threat. There was no way of knowing if the gruesome offering had indeed come from ‘Delilah’. If so, it was a new departure to the best of Webb’s knowledge. But at best it was a nasty case of victimization and he couldn’t afford to ignore it.
He said more gently, ‘Miss Lucas will be as unobtrusive as possible.’ And as Kate still looked apprehensive, added less than truthfully, ‘It shouldn’t be for long. We’re closing in on him now.’
‘Yes, I saw that in the paper.’
Webb’s face was expressionless. ‘There’s the inquest on Friday, don’t forget. Would you like us to send a car for you?’
‘No, thank you, I expect I’ll be going with Richard — Mr Mowbray.’
With admitted prejudice, Webb wondered darkly if Richard Mowbray ran a line in dead pigeons.
It was eleven-thirty when, having handed over to Mary Lucas, he left Monks’ Walk and there was still the protection to arrange before he could sign off. He carried the pigeon gingerly into Court Lane police station and dropped it in front of the desk sergeant, who backed away with exaggerated alarm.
‘This could be an exhibit, Barton. Have it gone over, will you, then put it in deep freeze somewhere.’
‘I’d rather put it in a pie, myself!’
‘And let Henderson get to work on the label. Who’s in the building?’
Barton consulted his list. ‘Flint, Ridley, Standing, Harrison—’
‘Harrison’ll do. Get him here at the double, I’ve an urgent job waiting.’
***
Twelve hours later, Sergeant Jackson sat down opposite Webb in the Incident Room at Headquarters. ‘We’ve traced the initials in the diary. You were right — they were both at the school. Standing went along there yesterday. First chance we had, with the place being shut for half term. Came up with two P.N.’s and no less than three R.P.’s on the staff list but we weeded them down to Paul Netherby and Robin Peters.’
‘Either of them likely to be Chummie?’
‘Very doubtful, I’d say. Paul Netherby’d commissioned a painting of his kids for his wife’s birthday.’
‘Could have been a cover-up.’
‘Don’t think so. Seemed a straight sort of bloke. He kept popping in to see how it was going, that’s all. The other one, though, Robin Peters, he was something different. Started blustering before we even opened our mouths.’
Webb leaned back in his chair, the tips of his fingers together. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Thirties. Not bad-looking. Academic type.’
‘Thirties? Cradle-snatching, was she?’
‘Seems she liked them young. Our Mr Peters wasn’t too gallant — insisted he wasn’t the only member of staff involved with her.’
‘Married, I suppose?’
‘Oh yes. Couple of young kids.’
‘Wife know anything about it?’
‘Not so far. That’s what was bugging him.’
‘So once more we’ve come up with sweet F.A.’
‘Looks like it. I’m willing to bet Peters hasn’t the stomach for murder, but in any case he had the same alibi as Dane — at the school all evening seeing parents.’
The phone rang and Webb reached for it. He listened intently for a minute, muttered an expletive, and then, with a few quick words, dropped the phone and started to his feet.
‘Come on, Ken, we’re on the road again. Otterford this time. Seems some woman did see the moped there — hadn’t thought it was important, for God’s sake. What’s more, she got a look at the rider.’
‘Didn’t take a note of his number, I suppose?’
‘You want jam on it!’
***
It was a foggy day, damp and smelling of sulphur but despite the weather Otterford market was in full swing. With collars up and caps over their ears, the stallholders stoically plied their wares and the villagers just as stoically bought them. Moisture dripped off the awnings and collected in puddles on the uneven pavements. Behind the village square an assortment of vans and trucks merged into the thick air.
‘No sign of a ruddy moped today!’ Jackson said disgustedly. They’d had to park some distance from the police station and were walking in single file along the narrow pavement, jolted by prams and shopping trolleys. A smell of fish and chips assaulted them from an open doorway and a wet, miserable-looking queue straggled onto the street, patiently awaiting their turn. Jackson’s stomach growled in sympathy. It seemed a long time since breakfast.
The last in a row of council houses doubled as a police station, a blue globe over its front door. A single-storey extension had been built onto one side and it was from this that the village constable, seeing their arrival, emerged to meet them.
‘PC Simpson, sir. We have met. My wife was wondering if you’d like a cuppa before we start?’
‘That would be very welcome. Thank you.’
‘She could make a round of sandwiches, and all,’ the constable added eagerly. ‘You’ve not had your dinner, I suppose?’
Webb hesitated, caught the gleam in Jackson’s eye. ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble.’
They followed Simpson round the side of the house and he ushered them into a small square room. It contained a desk and telephone, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. There was room for little else. On the wall hung an official notice board and an ordnance survey map. Constable Simpson showed them to the seats and disappeared briefly through an internal door, reappearing with a spindly dining chair.
‘The food won’t be long,’ he assured them. ‘June’s seeing to it now.’ He was a red-faced young man with a figure that would once have been described as portly. Cautiously he lowered himself onto the narrow chair, placing his hands squarely on his spreading thighs.
‘It was market day that brought it back, like,’ he said conversationally, and seeing their blank faces, added in explanation, ‘Mrs Parker, that is. Seeing the moped. I passed her on my beat and she stopped to chat. Quite a chatterbox is Mrs Parker. And that ties in, too. She said, “All the pleasure’s gone out of market days now, Constable. I keep thinking of that poor Mrs Percival.” And I said, “It could jog your memory, though. Remind you of a face, or a car, or that moped we’re trying to trace.”’
A tap on the door heralded Mrs Simpson bearing a tray filled with mugs of steaming tea and a plate piled high with sandwiches. The bread was fresh and the butter, thickly spread, formed a layer of its own over which succulent slices of pink ham had been laid. This was what Jackson called a sandwich. As they started to eat, Constable Simpson, munching steadily, went on with his recital as though there’d been no interruption.
‘“Moped?” she said. “Lord love us, I saw one of them. On the day it happened, too. Went clean out of my head till you mentioned it.” Seems she’d collected the kids from school — three-thirty it must have been, or just after, because she’d only got to the corner of Pond Lane. That’s the next turning after Westfield Close, where the murder took place.’
Webb, taking a sip of the scalding tea, wondered if it would be necessary to see the woman at all after this verbatim preview.
‘Well, she’d stopped to talk to a friend — Mrs Parker all over. I’ve watched her progress through the village and she never gets more than a few yards before she stops to talk to someone. Fair chatterbox, like I
said.’
Takes one to know one, Webb thought humorously.
‘And while she was talking, the little ‘un had wandered to the edge of the pavement and was scuffing at the leaves in the gutter. Suddenly there was a screech of tyres and this moped comes roaring round the corner of Westfield Close. He saw the kid in the gutter and swerved, like. Almost came off. Then away he roared down the street and out of sight.’
Simpson wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and looked at his audience with satisfaction. ‘So I says to her, “You’d best have a word with the Chief Inspector, you had.”’
***
Mrs Parker proved to be a thin young woman with pale, prominent eyes and a head of frizzy hair standing up like a halo. She ushered them into her front room with nervous ceremony, her face pink with importance. A large black cat was asleep on the most comfortable seat and Webb paused, expecting Mrs Parker to remove it. When she did not, he pointedly seated himself on an upright chair against the wall.
‘Right, Mrs Parker. Constable Simpson here thinks you might have some information for us.’
As he’d suspected, the constable had spiked her guns. Her story followed an identical pattern to his, in almost the same words they had been regaled with over lunch.
‘I was that frightened, Inspector,’ she finished.
‘Chief Inspector,’ interpolated Simpson reprovingly.
‘Oh, sorry I’m sure. Such a mouthful though, isn’t it? Anyway, I had visions of little Lee under those wheels. I screamed — I did really — and rushed to pick him up. And that’s how I saw the chap’s face — we were only inches apart.’
‘And can you describe him, Mrs Parker?’ Here, after all, was the nub of the matter.
‘Well, he looked frightened. Probably because I screamed, though of course he was wearing a helmet so I don’t know how much he heard. And his eyes were large and staring.’
‘Did you get an impression of his height and build?’
‘Can’t say I did, really. Not height, because he didn’t actually come off his bike. But he wasn’t very broad. Narrow shoulders and that. I got the feeling he was only a lad, though I’m not sure why.’
A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) Page 18