David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘At this rate we’ll be looking for all the vans in Broadshire,’ Webb said disgustedly. ‘How’s the girl?’

  ‘Not good; in intensive care.’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to know what we can do that we’re not already doing, but the press were giving us a bad time even before this. Kev, you said. Do we know anyone of that name?’

  Bennett shrugged dispiritedly. ‘We’ve run it through and come up with half a dozen Kevins. No doubt they’ll all have cast-iron alibis.’

  ‘If we could find one who has three close pals, it might help. At least it’s some lead.’

  Bennett nodded, absent-mindedly twisting a ring round and round his little finger. It was a dull green stone flecked with red, in a heavy gold setting. Webb nodded towards it.

  ‘Handsome ring. I noticed it when we had lunch; is it new?’

  ‘My birthday present from Una. Known as a bloodstone, for obvious reasons. Perhaps she thought it went with the job.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I have to admit I’ve never considered myself a ring man, but it was a kind thought, and, as you say, it’s very handsome.’

  Webb came to a quick decision. ‘Look, Malc, tell me to take a running jump if you like, but is everything OK? At home, I mean?’

  Bennett raised his head slowly and met his eyes. ‘We’re jogging along, I suppose.’

  ‘But—?’

  ‘Oh God, I don’t know. Perhaps we’re too alike — pigheaded and used to having our own way. With Carol, I got away with it.’

  His voice shook slightly and he took a gulp of beer.

  Webb said gently, ‘Don’t blame yourself if you can’t feel for Una what you did for Carol. No one would expect you to. This time, I suppose, you married for — well, affection and companionship.’

  ‘And there’s precious little of that.’

  Webb was startled at the bitterness in his voice, but before he could comment Bennett went on, ‘I feel bloody disloyal, you know, talking about her like this. And I wouldn’t, to anyone but you.’

  ‘So what’s gone wrong?’

  ‘Nothing spectacular, but — well, she’s still as wrapped up in her own pursuits as she was before we married. She’s made no concessions whatever.’

  ‘And have you?’

  Bennett gave him a startled glance, and after a moment smiled. ‘Now that you mention it, probably not. I said we were too alike.’

  ‘Can’t you share each other’s “pursuits”?’

  ‘I’m not interested in music and she isn’t in football.’

  ‘Was Carol?’ Webb asked quizzically.

  ‘No, but with her it didn’t seem to matter.’

  ‘She was always there when you wanted her, and Una isn’t?’

  Bennett stared at him for a long minute. ‘My God, am I as selfish as that?’

  ‘It’s natural enough, but you both need to make allowances.’ He grinned in quick embarrassment. ‘I sound like an agony aunt!’

  ‘No,’ Bennett said seriously, ‘you’ve put it in perspective. We don’t make allowances, either of us; perhaps that’s the root of the trouble.’

  ‘You are still fond of her?’

  ‘Basically, yes.’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘Specially when I’m not with her; nowadays, it seems that whenever we’re together we rub each other the wrong way, and then the fur flies.’

  Webb raised an eyebrow. ‘She has a temper?’ Malcolm’s wife had struck him as too cold to warm into anger.

  ‘Hell, yes, she really lets fly sometimes, and so do I. We’re both sorry afterwards. There was a case in point last week, and poor Jane landed in the thick of it. She’s having problems with the boyfriend — which doesn’t surprise me — and asked if she could stay for a few days. Una came in late and the row blew up before I could tell her Jane was there.’

  ‘Is she still with you? Jane, I mean?’

  ‘No, she went back at the weekend. Probably decided the frying pan was better than the fire! I worry about her, though; I don’t like this lad she’s with and to be honest, I was appalled when she moved in with him. Lord knows what Carol would have thought. But perhaps it’s just me being the protective father; I’m not too keen on Sally’s husband, either.’

  Webb, with no experience of offspring, brought the conversation back to the main problem. ‘Didn’t you say when we had lunch that Una was in some concert or other?’

  ‘That’s right, on Saturday. She has to go over to SB — don’t ask me why; they’re usually held in Shillingham.’

  ‘How about making a gesture by going along to support her?’

  Bennett moved protestingly. ‘But she has to be there at two-thirty, for a rehearsal, and it’s the big match on telly.’

  He caught Webb’s eye and laughed shamefacedly. ‘All right, you’ve made your point. I ought to make an effort, but not on Saturday, OK? I’ve been looking forward to this match for weeks.’

  Webb shook his head ruefully. ‘Confucius, he say, “Good intentions, like diets, always start tomorrow.” Seriously, though, you do seem below par, old lad. Are you due for any leave? Take Una and go off for a few days — back to Scotland, perhaps, where you met. That might be a good move — a new start, and all that.’

  ‘Let’s get these bloody raids cleared up first.’ Bennett drained his glass. ‘Now to more cheerful topics: ready for the other half?’

  And at Webb’s nod, he lifted the two empty tankards and shouldered his way back to the bar.

  4

  Tuesday morning brought the welcome news that the injured shop assistant, Michelle Taylor, had regained consciousness.

  ‘Go along and see what she remembers, Jeff,’ Bennett told his sergeant. ‘Debbie Grant’s been sitting with her, but she hasn’t come up with anything so far.’

  Carter nodded. He’d known this would be his job; the governor had been making excuses not to call at the hospital ever since his first wife died there.

  ‘I’ve been reading the eyewitness accounts,’ Bennett was continuing. ‘Pretty vague descriptions, when you consider the villains ran right past them.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Guv; I’d say it’s a wonder they remembered that much. They were terrified, poor kids. Anyway, there’s not a lot you can say about blokes in balaclavas.’

  ‘I suppose not. I wonder if it’s coincidence that the last two raids took place when the manager wasn’t there?’

  ‘Done their homework, more like. Probably it was this bloke’s usual lunch break, and Shillingham says the newsagent always went for a smoke when the first rush was over.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to the off-licence now. Meet me at the Roebuck at one, and we can compare notes.’

  The shop was on a corner site, and Highbury Street, in which the getaway car had been parked, led directly to one of the main roads out of town — an advantage which had probably not been overlooked.

  The shelves, Bennett noted as he pushed open the door, had been restocked, and there was no indication there had been a raid except, perhaps, in the wary stance of the young man behind the counter.

  ‘Mr Braithwaite?’ Bennett held up his warrant card, and the man relaxed. Then, almost immediately, concern flooded his face.

  ‘Have you come about Michelle? She’s not—?’

  ‘Miss Taylor is making good progress,’ Bennett assured him. ‘She’s regained consciousness and my sergeant has gone to the hospital to take a statement.’

  ‘Thank God! Are you any nearer finding out who did it?’

  ‘I’m hoping you might help us on that one.’

  ‘Me? But I wasn’t even here! Didn’t they tell you—?’

  ‘Where exactly were you, Mr Braithwaite?’

  ‘It was my lunch break and I’d slipped home. I don’t normally, but my wife’s expecting a baby any minute and I wanted to check she was OK.’

  ‘And where’s home?’

  ‘Netherby Lane, up past the church. I left here spot on twelve and was home by ten-past. I didn’t know anything about the raid till I got back just after o
ne and found police everywhere.’

  ‘Do you always take your lunch break at that time?’

  ‘No, usually Michelle goes from twelve to one, and I have one to two. But yesterday my wife was going to the clinic, so we swapped round.’

  If the thieves hadn’t planned for Braithwaite’s absence, they might have just struck lucky in Shillingham, too. Though even if the men had been there, it wouldn’t have made much difference. There was little they could have done when threatened with a knife.

  ‘Have you noticed anyone hanging around lately?’ he asked. ‘Any customers making a nuisance of themselves?’

  ‘Not really. We often get groups of lads in for beer and cigarettes, and they kid Michelle along — ask her out and so on — but they don’t really cause trouble.’

  ‘No one took offence when she refused to go out with him?’

  Braithwaite looked startled. ‘I don’t think so. You mean it could be a personal attack?’

  ‘We’re keeping our options open, that’s all. Has the shop been robbed before?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Certainly not while I’ve been here, which is getting on for three years now.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Braithwaite, thanks for your help. If you think of anything that might be useful, you can get me at the police station. And I hope all goes well with your wife.’

  The young man smiled for the first time. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Bennett stood for a moment on the pavement outside, looking up and down the road. The entrance to the shop was on Malvern Road, which finished in a T-junction at either end, one giving on to the High Street and the other, Barnaby Lane. It was long and fairly narrow, with what he considered second-class shops jostling one against the other.

  Those opposite the off-licence were a small sub-post office, an Indian grocer’s and an electrical repair shop. Judging by the lopsided curtains in the windows above, their owners lived over the shops. They had, of course, been interviewed the previous afternoon, but all professed to have seen nothing, and since their own shop windows were stacked high with goods, it was quite possible they were telling the truth.

  Bennett moved to the corner and stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down Highbury Street to the Ashmartin Road. Here, there were a couple of estate agent’s, a stationery shop with photocopying facilities, several blocks of offices and, nearer the main road, a garage and filling station. Again, no one admitted seeing anything. Talk about the wise monkeys, he thought in frustration. But to be fair, unless someone had spotted the three men actually running out of the shop — which had taken less than a minute — nothing about the parked van would have aroused suspicion.

  So where were they based, this gang of four — Shillingham, or here in Lethbridge? It was anyone’s guess. He wondered how Jeff was getting on at the hospital. One of these days, he told himself, he’d have to go there himself. It was nearly three years since Carol had died, and he couldn’t run away from painful memories all his life. Anyway, they were locked in his head, not in the long, antiseptic corridors of the hospital.

  He sighed and, stuffing his hands still further into his pockets, started to walk back towards the High Street.

  *

  Barbara’s little house was situated in a quiet road near the park, within easy walking distance of Ashbourne School. Carol had called it a doll’s house, but what did she want with anything larger? She had spent time and money on it over the years, and it now suited her to perfection.

  She’d stayed on at school that Tuesday for extra coaching, and it was dusk by the time she arrived home. But as always she felt a lift of the spirits as she turned into the small, paved garden with its sundial and pots of shrubs and spring flowers. The house itself boasted a porch with an outer door — grandly referred to by the estate agent as a ‘vestibule’ — and Barbara smiled at the pretension as she unlocked both doors and let herself into the small, narrow hall with its white walls and leaf-green carpet.

  Originally, there’d been two small rooms off to the left, which, after some thought, she’d had knocked into one. It was still not large, but Barbara loved it and, having hung her coat on the hall stand, she went in to switch on the lamps, delighting in the soft lights that sprang up, one after another, to shine on her treasured possessions.

  There was a window at each end of the room, draped with flamingo-pink curtains suspended from wooden poles. Their sharp colour, echoed by cushions on the chairs, contrasted strikingly with the muted tones of the rest of the room. Barbara seldom drew the curtains, preferring merely to pull down blinds to shield the lighted room from passers-by.

  At the back window, she paused as she always did to look out at the small, walled garden, merging now into darkness. The lawn, she noted, was just about ready for its first cut of the season.

  Turning away, her thoughts moved to the more immediate prospect of supper. There was a chicken casserole in the fridge, and she decided to open a bottle of wine. If she vacuum-sealed it, it would last for several days, adding pleasure to whatever mundane fare she happened to be eating.

  She went through to the tiny kitchen at the end of the hall, where everything was within arm’s reach, and had just lit the oven when the doorbell rang. She straightened, frowning. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and was in no mood to deal with on-spec double-glazing salesmen. She walked quickly back up the hall, flung open the porch door and, to her surprise, found Jane standing on the step.

  For a moment, she wondered wildly whether she’d issued an invitation which she had since forgotten. But Jane was saying quickly, ‘I’m sorry to drop in out of the blue. Is it very inconvenient?’

  ‘Of course not, dear, I’ve not been back long myself. Go into the sitting-room; I shan’t be a moment — I was just putting a casserole in the oven.’

  When, minutes later, Barbara joined her, Jane was standing by the marble fireplace, studying the family photographs which hung beside the mirror. She turned as her aunt came in, her eyes moving appreciatively over the deep sofas and easy chairs, the lamps strategically placed on small tables, the exquisite Indian rug on the deep-piled carpet.

  ‘This is my very favourite room,’ she said. ‘Just walking into it makes you feel better.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, because that was my intention.’

  ‘Everything’s so — comfortable!’

  Barbara smiled. ‘Well, I decided that since I spend my days on hard chairs in austere classrooms, I deserve a little luxury at home. Now, can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Have you any beer?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, but I’ve just opened a bottle of wine.’

  ‘That’d be fine.’

  Jane settled herself on one of the sofas, wriggling into its soft cushions like a puppy and, having handed her her glass, Barbara also sat down.

  ‘Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  The girl took a gulp of wine. She looked very young, Barbara thought, with her shaggy curls and Carol’s large grey eyes, but then she wasn’t much older than the pupils she’d just left.

  Jane looked up, meeting her gaze. ‘Have you spoken to Dad recently?’

  ‘Not since the birthday party. Why?’

  ‘I turned up on his doorstep, too — I wondered if he’d mentioned it. In fact, I spent two or three nights there.’

  ‘Oh? Why was that?’

  The girl’s eyes dropped. ‘Things aren’t too good with Steve at the moment. I wanted to get away for a bit, talk it over with someone.’

  ‘And did you? Talk it over, I mean?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘Dad’s got enough problems of his own, and Una — well, she’s not the kind you confide in, is she?’

  All Barbara’s anxieties surged back. She said carefully, ‘What do you mean, your father has enough problems?’ Jane flushed. ‘Nothing in particular.’

  Barbara studied her niece’s closed face. This was her favourite of Carol’s children, though she tried not to show it, and it seemed that worry about her father was
adding to her other problems.

  ‘Jane?’ she prompted gently.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything, but — well, Una and Dad had a row the night I arrived. I heard them shouting at each other and went downstairs. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was half asleep and didn’t know what was happening. So that made things awkward right at the start, and though Una was quite nice about it and said I could stay as long as I liked, I could tell she didn’t really want me to.’

  Barbara knew she shouldn’t ask, but was unable to stop herself. ‘What was the row about?’

  ‘Oh, Dad said she wasn’t much company, and she called Mummy “the sainted Carol” and the rest of us “po-faced”. It was pretty unpleasant.’

  ‘It must have been,’ Barbara said quietly. ‘But you know, people can have rows and still love each other.’ It cost her something to say that.

  Jane merely nodded, rubbing a finger round the rim of her glass.

  ‘Does that auntish comment help you and Steve?’

  ‘Not really; our row was different.’

  ‘Do you still want to talk about it?’

  Jane looked up. ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You see, I don’t know what to do. I think I still love Steve, but I hate what he’s doing. That’s what the row was about; he wanted to know if I was going to shop him to Dad.’

  ‘Shop him?’ Barbara repeated sharply. ‘You mean he’s doing something illegal?’

  Miserably, Jane nodded. ‘He didn’t want me to know because of Dad being in the police, I suppose. But we went out for a drink with Tony, who works with him, and his girlfriend, and Tony let it slip. He didn’t realize Steve hadn’t told me.’

  ‘So what is it they’re up to?’

  ‘You know he works at Savemore in Duke Street?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, he and Tony fill the shelves, and I think they’ve got some scheme going, creaming off items of stock. I don’t know the details.’

  ‘I see,’ Barbara said — inadequately, she felt.

  ‘Anyway, Tony made a joke about lining their pockets and Steve was furious. When we got home I asked him about it, and he said he was doing it for us, because neither of us earns much and we need more money. I said I didn’t want it if that was the way he got it, and he said I was a prissy little cow who didn’t know what life was about.’