A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1)

by Anthea Fraser

  For a few minutes Webb let his mind circle the possibilities. Then, temporarily abandoning them, he progressed to Rose Percival in Otterford. For her he drew the candlestick that Bailey went to value. He could have returned on the Thursday, despite what he’d said. And he had the right blood group. As, Webb conceded, had two thirds of the population of Broadshire. More pine needles, and this time he could fit a rider to the moped, narrow-shouldered as Mrs Parker described.

  So to Sylvia Dane. Webb sketched a rectangle for the painting commissioned by Paul Netherby. Then the cat, with arched back and glaring eyes. There was something about the cat, something he was overlooking. Frowningly he devoted some minutes to it, elaborating its outline with claws and whiskers. But without enlightenment. No pine needles here, and no moped. It seemed they went together.

  Minutes ticked into hours as Webb doodled, mentally and physically. The paper was filling up. There were two market stalls for Otterford and Larksworth, three mopeds, only one of which had a rider, and no less than five daggers. Would they ever find that weapon? They couldn’t search every house in the county.

  Mowbray’s sitting room came to mind, the portrait on the wall, the daggers by the fire. Any one of them would have fitted the bill. Left-handed, Mowbray said they were — a gratuitous piece of information. Or was it to throw them off the scent, since he himself was right-handed? For if Mowbray were the killer, what was to prevent his selecting a weapon from his own wall, using it to his purpose, and then replacing it? Webb remembered the tenseness, the silent challenge in the man when he showed an interest in the collection.

  Experimentally he cast Mowbray as murderer and surveyed the possibilities. Like Bailey, he had the right blood group — and there were plenty of pine trees up the lane to his house! Momentarily Webb’s grip tightened on the charcoal, then relaxed. Even if they found a moped on his premises, he could never be described as narrow-shouldered. Or were they placing too much importance on Mrs Parker’s memory?

  Motive? Well, his wife had left him. He could have been brooding for years, building up a paranoid hatred of faithless wives. Webb felt certain the victims were chosen as representatives of their kind, not from personal animosity. Their deaths were executions rather than crimes of passion. Mowbray was capable of that detached callousness, and he’d been in the area when Mrs Dane died. In that instance, at least, he’d had motive, means, and opportunity.

  Almost with reluctance, Webb sketched in the items sent to Kate Romilly. Yet if he dismissed her skinhead theory — and to them, one frightened woman would be of only passing interest — the most likely sender was the murderer. But why the change of operation? Up to now, he had struck without warning.

  Thoughtfully he retraced the latest outlines, embroidering the moth’s thorax with its sinister and disregarded skull. What was the motive behind it? Escalating terror, ending in death, or an escape clause? Suppose the killer knew Kate, was reluctant to carry out what he felt to be his duty. Might he not try by this harassment to frighten her back to her husband and consequent safety?

  Webb reached for Hannah’s basket. The soup sent warmth coursing through him, though he’d been unaware of cold, and the rolls satisfied a hunger he hadn’t recognized. He ate quickly, his eyes moving over the drawings, and, brushing the crumbs from his trousers, returned to work. The background was as complete as he could make it. Now the actors must be brought on stage.

  A few deft strokes caught the traits which identified each figure. Mowbray, exaggeratedly squat, with thick hair and vacant eyes; Kate’s dark, frightened gaze and Bailey’s unconvincing charm. Then Lana Truscott’s gaunt face and home-knitted sweater, and Henry Dane, peering through spectacles at his changed world. The figures multiplied: Netherby, Mrs Parker, the pathologist — all who, suspects or not, had walked briefly onto the murder stage must take their places in the finale.

  The canvas was complete, and hidden in it, he knew, lay the solution to the case. Somehow, by a narrowing of concentration on each symbol in turn, he must hope for a slight shift in focus which would give a new slant. And already something was stirring. That Sunday he’d spent with Fleming: he’d felt at the time he’d missed something.

  His eyes moved systematically across the sheet as his mind reached backwards, both locking at the same instant on the drawing of a pine tree. Where had he recently looked out of a window and—?

  He straightened, excitement pricking his scalp. He’d gazed down a length of garden to a gate opening on pinewoods. From Victor Truscott’s bedroom. Suppose there’d been a more sinister reason for his daughter’s doctoring him with pills? Webb had accepted they’d extend her freedom, but to do what?

  All but one murder was committed in the afternoon. Lana Truscott worked at the shop mornings only. And the old man had said something he hadn’t latched on to at the time: ‘Lana’s allergic to cats.’

  To cats! Lana, sneezing and red-eyed, rubbing her arm as though the coarse wool irritated her skin. Or was the irritation not from the wool but in the skin itself, a rash which, taken with her sneezing, pointed to allergy rather than the cold she’d mentioned? And only three days earlier, the Danes’ cat had clawed a killer.

  Webb reined in his racing thoughts. They’d need more proof than that. The pine needles and the cat slotted into place. What of the moped? Hadn’t — his mouth was dry — hadn’t Ralph Truscott driven one to his death in the river? Suppose it hadn’t been sold but kept in that shed he’d noticed in the back garden? If, to avoid notice, it were wheeled through the back gate into the wood and across the fields, the rider’s shoes would collect some needles. Mrs Parker assumed the rider was a youth: because, small and slight, the figure was in fact more like a woman?

  So Lana Truscott, like Mowbray, had the opportunity — long, lonely afternoons while her invalid father slept. What of motive and means? Webb cast his mind back, remembering that when Ralph Truscott died, his sister’s grief had outweighed his estranged wife’s. And the broken marriage, following on illness and redundancy, had been the catalyst that led to suicide. Did she, in a crazed, one-woman campaign, feel she was avenging him, even — my God! — Richard Mowbray, to whom she seemed devoted and whose wife had also left him?

  Baffled, Webb shook his head. He’d never understand the tortuous twistings of the human psyche. Still, he’d established motive and opportunity. What of the weapon? Mowbray was unlikely to loan her his.

  Then he drew in his breath. He’d facetiously imagined Mowbray using and replacing his own weapons, but there were also daggers at Pennyfarthings! Suppose Lana Truscott had done precisely that, and the murder weapon had literally been in front of their noses all the time?

  Though not quite all the time. And during its absence, wouldn’t Kate or the partners have missed it? It seemed an unacceptable risk to take. Momentarily shelving that question, Webb returned to the motive. Lana would know Mrs Dane’s reputation, and consider it as guilty as desertion. And she’d been babysitting for Kate Romilly on the night of her murder, a mere hundred yards from the Danes’ house! No wonder the moped and pine needles weren’t in evidence. If he was right, the murderer came in by bus — and was considerately driven home in a police car!

  There was still the question of why the victims admitted Lana. Possibly she’d posed as a market researcher. But once having let her in, they wouldn’t expect attack from another woman.

  And the packages. His second alternative seemed correct. Lana liked Kate, didn’t want to harm her. Yet she had left her husband, a ‘crime’ that couldn’t be ignored. If she could be frightened back to him, she would also be removed from Mowbray’s orbit. For should Kate, having left Michael, become involved with Richard, she’d be twice damned and nothing could save her.

  And she was still in danger, danger which, like the five women before her, she had no means of recognizing.

  Webb reached for his radio, calling the control room to instruct all units to be on the lookout for Lana Truscott. ‘Please God she’s safely at home,’ he finishe
d briskly. ‘I’m on my way to Littlemarsh now. Send a backup, will you, to wait out of sight till I get there. Oh, and if you can catch Romilly at the News, tell him to go to his wife. She might need his support.’

  He bundled his belongings together and started back to the car at a run.

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘But I’m glad you called, Lana,’ Kate said warmly. ‘It must be very lonely at home.’

  Lana was standing in the middle of the room, gauche, out of place, her face white above the dark navy of her coat.

  ‘Give me your coat and sit down,’ Kate prompted. The woman lowered herself into a chair but made no attempt to remove the garment. Her eyes as she looked up at Kate were unfocused, as though, Kate thought uncomfortably, she was looking at some-thing else. But she’d been devoted to her father; no wonder she was in a state of shock.

  Briefly Kate thought of Mary Lucas upstairs. Lana’s ring at the door had coincided with a radio signal from outside telling them who the caller was. In keeping with instructions, Mary had left Kate to greet her visitor alone.

  ‘They cut him up,’ Lana was saying jerkily. ‘Just because he hadn’t seen the doctor.’ She shuddered, her whole body racked with the spasm.

  ‘It’s for the death certificate. They can’t issue one if—’

  ‘They did the same to Ralph. The one who should have been cut up was Sandra. She killed them both.’

  ‘Try not to think that, Lana. I know it must seem that way, but—’

  ‘When Ralph died, Father—’ She broke off, staring down at her twisting hands. ‘Father said, “If Sandra walked in now, I’d strangle her with my bare hands.”’

  ‘But he didn’t mean it. It’s the kind of thing people do say in moments of stress.’

  ‘He meant it,’ Lana said simply.

  Kate’s eyes fell from the mindless gaze and she tried to change the subject. ‘Did you find your cheque-book?’

  Lana looked at her blankly.

  ‘When you went down to look. Was it in your desk?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes.’

  It was going to be a difficult afternoon. A full hour yet before Josh would be home. Had she locked the front door when Lana arrived? Almost certainly not. Her face through the glass had put it out of her mind. Still, the police guard was across the road.

  ‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ she said brightly.

  ‘No. There isn’t time.’

  Kate, about to rise, hesitated in surprise. ‘You’re leaving already?’

  Lana didn’t seem to have heard her. She said harshly, ‘Don’t worry about Josh. I’ll look after him.’

  Kate stared at her, the pinprick of unease deepening.

  ‘I love Josh, Kate. You know that. He wasn’t meant to find the mouse. I’d have given anything, to spare him that.’

  ‘But it wasn’t your—’ Kate broke off, coldness spreading inside her.

  ‘I saved the pigeon till I knew he was in bed.’

  ‘Lana, you’re surely not saying—?’

  ‘And I labelled it, so you wouldn’t think it was from those boys.’ Her mouth twisted in the parody of a smile. ‘You’re not easy to frighten, Kate. I tried so hard to send you back to your husband. So hard.’

  Kate said very carefully. ‘What else did you do?’

  Lana moved her hands an inch or so. ‘The phone calls, the man on the bench. There wasn’t really anyone.’

  ‘But I saw him,’ Kate insisted through dry lips.

  ‘He happened to be there when I arrived for work. I’d never seen him before.’ She met Kate’s bewildered eyes and added plaintively, ‘Why do you make me do this? You’re my friend, but you’re harming Josh and I can’t let you. We must stamp out permissiveness, or one day he’ll be hurt as badly as Ralph, and — and Richard.’ Her face glowed briefly as she spoke his name, the first time Kate had heard her use it.

  Kate said with an effort. ‘You’re confused, Lana. It’s not surprising, all the murders and then your father’s death. But try not to worry. The police are after a man with red hair, and when they find him it will all be over.’

  ‘There isn’t any man.’ Lana fumbled in her handbag and drew out a dagger. Kate recognized it. It was the smaller of the Indian kards. ‘This is what I went down for. Neat, isn’t it? It fits into the hilt of the large one, so it’s never missed.’

  Afterwards, Kate couldn’t explain why she hadn’t called Mary. True, a scream might have provoked attack, but it never even occurred to her. Quite simply, she couldn’t accept that Lana would hurt her. All the same, she needed humouring.

  ‘You’re right, Lana.’ She strove to keep her voice level. ‘I shouldn’t have left Michael. I’ll go back to him, I promise.’

  Lana looked confused. ‘But it’s too late.’

  Wilfully, Kate misunderstood. ‘It’s never too late. Think how happy Josh will be!’

  Lana made a low sound in her throat, half pain, half anger. ‘If you’d said that last week — yesterday—’ She rose clumsily to her feet, her handbag sliding unnoticed to the floor. Kate rose with her, eyes on the gleaming blade.

  Lana said shakily, ‘It won’t hurt. You won’t feel—’

  Everything happened at once. There was a cry and the sound of feet overhead, a crash downstairs as the front door rocked open. The two women stood frozen as footsteps came running down one flight of stairs, up the other. From behind her, Kate heard Michael’s voice: ‘Kate! Oh my God!’ and superimposed on it, another: ‘All right, Miss Truscott, you can drop that now.’

  The silence stretched like elastic, snapped as Mary Lucas said, ‘Cover me, Jack. I’ll try—’

  Lana moved suddenly, arm upraised. Michael yelled, ‘Down, Kate!’ and she flung herself sideways to the floor. But the dagger was not after all intended for her. With a choked cry Lana drove it into her breast and fell forward as the detective ran to catch her.

  Kate lay where she had fallen till Michael pulled her to her feet.

  ‘You’re all right? She didn’t touch you?’

  Kate’s eyes were drawn in glazed fascination to the figure on the floor. Mary Lucas, feeling swiftly for a pulse, looked up at her colleague and shook her head.

  ‘Should we try resuscitation?’

  ‘No point, Jack. She knew where to aim — she’s had plenty of practice.’ Mary straightened, turned to Kate. ‘Thank God you’re OK. The message only just came through. I’ve never moved so fast in my life!’

  Kate moistened her lips. ‘Is Lana dead?’

  ‘Yes. Best thing, really.’ Mary stooped and closed the staring eyes.

  Kate said on a rising note, ‘Oh God!’ The shaking had started, rattling her teeth. In the distance she could hear police sirens, growing louder.

  Mary said gently, ‘It’s over, Kate. Would you like me to take you upstairs?’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ Michael’s arm tightened round Kate’s shoulder. ‘She’s coming home with me. Aren’t you, Kate?’

  She turned her head, meeting the anxious question in his eyes. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘I’m going home.’

  After all, she had promised Lana.

  If you enjoyed reading A Shroud for Delilah, you might be interested in Island in Waiting by Anthea Fraser, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Island in Waiting by Anthea Fraser

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been if I had not gone to the theatre that evening five years ago; whether, without the legacy of summoning voice and abnormally vivid dreams, I should still have visited Hugo in the Isle of Man and, once there, become so involved in the fabric of its past. Or were the dreams themselves the gateway to all that lay ahead?

  As I waited in the departure lounge at Heathrow, however, I had no suspicion that those dreams would overlap into my waking life and dominate it. I knew only that once again, after barely two weeks at home, I was running away from my parents’ exasperation, and wondered dejectedly why I alone of the family should have been denie
d a share in its brilliance.

  For brilliant the rest of them undoubtedly were. My father was Professor of History at one of the Oxford colleges, my mother head of an exclusive girls’ school, while brother Hugo, after an outstanding university career, had recently been appointed to the staff of the famous St Olaf’s College in the Isle of Man. It was to Hugo I was running now.

  ‘We regret to announce a delay of fifteen minutes in the Isle of Man flight.’

  The disembodied voice broke into my musings and I turned my head. It was then that I saw him through the crowd, tall and fair, infinitely reassuring and familiar. I started to my feet with a smile and began to make my way towards him. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, a startling fact slammed into me, bringing me to an abrupt halt. I hadn’t the slightest idea who he was!

  I stood immobile, a rock in the moving sea of people, struggling to tie down my undeniable recognition, and, drawn by the force of my gaze, he turned towards me. His eyes met mine briefly and moved on. Clearly he didn’t share my awareness.

  Hoping no-one had noticed my discomfiture I returned to my seat and opened the magazine I had bought for the flight while my chaotic thoughts continued to crash into each other.

  The recognition had been so instantaneous, so natural and instinctive, that it was impossible to dismiss simply as a mistake. He didn’t resemble anyone I knew, nor, I felt sure, was he an actor or politician whose face was known to everyone. It had been a deep, personal familiarity I had felt and started to act on, as though the most natural thing would have been to hurry to him and receive his kiss. I could only thank Providence that reason had reasserted itself before I’d made even more of a fool of myself.