David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone

by Anthea Fraser

  Jane fished in her pocket for a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  After a moment, Barbara said, ‘If you had talked to your father, would you have told him what Steve was doing?’

  ‘Oh no, only the rows and things, but after hearing him and Una, I didn’t feel I could.’ She added bleakly, ‘He’s never liked Steve anyway.’

  Barbara thought of the brash, rather aggressive young man, remembering her distress when Jane had moved into his dreary little flat in Dick Lane.

  ‘Even if I had told Dad,’ Jane went on, ‘he couldn’t have done anything, could he, without some sort of proof?’

  ‘It’s a delicate area, I agree. I suppose he could have put the store manager on his guard.’

  ‘But think how I’d feel if Steve and Tony went to prison because of me.’

  ‘Anyway, you went back to him.’

  ‘Yes, but things are even worse. He wouldn’t believe I’d not said anything, and I began to wish I had. I told him if he didn’t stop, I would.’

  ‘Blackmail? Oh, Jane!’

  ‘I know. And the worst thing is I can’t trust him any more. Even if he says he’s doing nothing wrong, I won’t believe him.’ She looked at her aunt beseechingly. ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘It sounds to me as though you’ve already decided.’

  ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘As you said, now you’re aware of his dishonesty, it will be very difficult, specially when you’re with your father, having to watch what you say all the time. And if you ever mislay any money, or a piece of jewellery, you’ll immediately wonder if he’s taken it.’

  Jane nodded, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Yes. I know you’re right, and part of me agrees with you. The trouble is, the other part still loves him.’

  Barbara moved quickly to the sofa and put an arm round her. ‘I’m so sorry, darling. How miserable for you.’

  For several minutes, Jane leant against her, sniffing from time to time. Then she sat up and blew her nose again. ‘Right, that’s settled then, and the sooner it’s over, the better.’

  ‘You’ll move out straight away? Where will you go?’

  Jane gave a watery smile. ‘It’s funny how things work out. I met Emma for lunch today — my best friend from school, remember?’

  Barbara nodded, recalling a small child with pigtails.

  ‘She’s been sharing a house in Oakacre with a girl who’s just left to get married. She asked if I’d like to go in with her.’

  Barbara drew a sigh of relief. ‘That would be an excellent solution.’ And Oakacre, she thought, was a much nicer neighbourhood than Dick Lane, where they’d had that raid only last week.

  ‘Now, would you like to stay for supper?’

  Jane wiped her eyes. ‘I’d love to. It smells wonderful.’

  ‘Then I’ll see to the vegetables while you lay the table. It won’t need opening out for just the two of us.’

  It seemed that Jane’s problems were on the way to being solved, Barbara thought thankfully as she put a light under the potatoes; but Malcolm and Una’s might prove a little more difficult.

  *

  The letter box rattled as Una came downstairs on the Friday morning, and she collected the envelopes from the mat and carried them into the kitchen, dropping those addressed to Malcolm on the table beside him.

  He picked up a handwritten one, frowning. ‘This is from Jane. Whatever’s she writing about?’ He tore open the envelope and ran his eyes swiftly down the single sheet of paper.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said slowly. ‘She’s leaving Steve.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’

  ‘But why didn’t she say anything while she was here?’

  ‘She mightn’t have made up her mind then.’

  ‘All the same, you’d think she’d have phoned, rather than write.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not easy for her to talk about,’ Una suggested.

  ‘Yes, that’ll be it. Poor kid. Anyway, this is ostensibly to give us her new address and phone number. She’s moving into Oakacre this weekend, to join a schoolfriend. I must say, it’s a relief. I never did take to that boy.’

  He laid the sheet aside and went on with his breakfast, glancing through the rest of his mail as he did so. Una had just poured a second cup of coffee when there was a tentative tap on the back door and Mrs Jones’s frizzy head appeared round it.

  ‘Am I too early? The bus before my usual was running late, so I got on that one.’ She caught sight of Malcolm and stopped in the doorway. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll come back in a few minutes.’

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ Una told her. ‘We won’t be long, if you could make a start on one of the other rooms. The new tin of polish is on the side.’

  The woman nodded, collected her dusters and the polish and went through to the hall. Malcolm finished his coffee and stood up.

  ‘What are the arrangements for tomorrow, by the way? Will you be here for lunch?’

  ‘No, I’ve a hair appointment in Shillingham at eleven, so it’s not worth coming back. I’ll have a sandwich and probably go on the coach with the others; it saves the hassle of driving. What are your plans?’

  ‘I’ll look in at the station for a while, but short of a major disaster I’ll be back by two, for the build-up to the match.’ He paused, remembering Dave’s suggestion. ‘You don’t mind me not coming to the concert, do you?’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘You’ve never been to a concert!’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘What brought this on?’

  He said awkwardly, ‘Well, I complain about you always being out, but I never make any effort to go with you.’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just as long as I don’t have to sit and watch football matches!’

  Malcolm laughed and, on impulse, bent and kissed her cheek. ‘See you later, then.’

  He was whistling as he set off down the hill towards the town. Perhaps things weren’t so bad after all.

  In the event, Una had to modify her plans. As she was sitting under the drier the next morning, she remembered, to her dismay, that she hadn’t taken her blouse out of the airing-cupboard.

  For a concert away from Shillingham, the choir took the clothes for the performance with them and changed at the hall. The previous evening she had packed the long, burgundy crepe skirt and patent shoes in the small case she kept for such occasions, but had noticed a mark on the blouse, which she’d sponged away. It was then too damp to pack, and she’d meant to collect it from the airing-cupboard in the morning. And forgotten.

  Damn! she thought. That meant she’d have to trail back to Lethbridge after all, and use her own car to go to Steeple Bayliss. Even cutting cross-country it was a good hour’s drive, and it would take her half an hour to get home in the first place, specially with the Saturday traffic. And she hated rushing before a concert.

  It was a quarter to one when she reached the house. She let herself in and ran straight upstairs to the airing-cupboard, removed the blouse, still on its hanger, and ran back down again. In the hall she paused suddenly, aware of an uncomfortable sensation of not being alone.

  ‘Malcolm?’ she called sharply. ‘Are you there?’

  But there was no reply.

  It was a nightmare journey; she was behind a tractor all the way to Chipping Claydon, with no means of overtaking it on the twisting country roads. Between there and Marlton she became caught up with a cycle race, which involved being flagged down every now and again by officious stewards to let the competitors pass. And finally, when she reached the main road to Steeple Bayliss, it was to discover two separate lots of roadworks, each with a set of traffic lights.

  By this time, hot with frustration, she was feeling decidedly panicky. Keep your mind on the music, she told herself forcibly, blot out everything else.

  When at last she reached the town, she’d barely time to swallow a cup of coffee and a sandwich before hurrying to the hall
for the rehearsal, where she was greeted with relief.

  ‘We wondered what had happened to you,’ Margaret Pearson said. ‘I thought you were coming on the coach?’

  ‘So I was, till I discovered I’d left my blouse at home.’ There were exclamations of sympathy.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Margaret asked, eyeing her anxiously. ‘You look rather — harassed.’

  ‘You’d be harassed,’ Una assured her tartly, ‘if you’d had the journey I’ve had.’

  ‘Well, you can relax now — you made it in time.’

  ‘Only just,’ Una commented, nodding towards the door as the conductor came into the hall. Abandoning their chat, they all made their way on to the stage.

  *

  Normally, Barbara enjoyed her weekends. Sometimes she deliberately left them free, to unwind in pleasant idleness. At others, jealous of her meagre free time, she went to the opposite extreme and planned them in detail: jobs to do, letters to write, articles to read, so that no moment should be wasted. Occasionally she went shopping, or to the theatre with a friend.

  But that particular Saturday she was restless, and although there were plenty of things to do, she’d not been able to settle to any of them.

  Standing aimlessly at the kitchen window, she thought about Jane, wondering how Steve had reacted to her decision to move out. By now, she should be unpacking her possessions at her new home.

  Beyond the glass, the garden lay bathed in afternoon sunshine. Several bushes were waiting to be trimmed, the roses needed pruning and the grass should be dry enough to cut. Yet none of these tasks inspired her to change into her gardening clothes and go outside. The depression that had swamped her after the birthday dinner had returned, fuelled by news of the row Jane had witnessed.

  Was there anything she could do to help? Might Malcolm, like his daughter, be glad of a sympathetic ear? She wondered what he was doing, then remembered it was today that Una was singing in Steeple Bayliss. So he’d be alone again.

  She looked at her watch, an idea beginning to form. Four o’clock; he was probably home. She’d ring and invite him round to supper; make it casual — say she’d remembered Una was out and wondered if he’d like some company.

  With a sense of purpose at last, she hurried to the phone and dialled his number. But it rang and rang unanswered and at last, trying to swallow her disappointment, she replaced the receiver.

  *

  The concert had been a great success, playing to a packed, enthusiastic audience. Bowing with the others yet again to continuing applause, Una thought exultantly that it had all been worthwhile — the snatched meals, the hours of rehearsing, the strains and tensions. All were forgotten now in the incomparable thrill of superb music, soaring voices and the rapt audience. Even more importantly, here, part of the large choir tightly packed on stage, she was for once not an outsider.

  Caught up in the general euphoria, she wished passionately that the evening could go on for ever, that she need never leave the crowded stage and the flushed, smiling people around her. But eventually the applause died away and, tired but triumphant, they collected their things together for the journey home. Una wished she could climb into the coach with them, extend for a little longer the sense of companionship and enjoy the luxury of being transported home without any effort on her part. Instead, she must face the long, lonely drive across the dark fields, with only her thoughts for company.

  It was almost nine-thirty by the time she’d extricated herself from the car park and reached the main road. Briefly, she considered staying on it as far as Shillingham and driving to Lethbridge from there; but despite the better roads, it would add a good twenty minutes to the journey and she dismissed the idea. Better to turn off at Marlton and return the way she had come.

  Once or twice, though, she questioned the wisdom of the decision. The main road was well lit and there would have been the company of other traffic. Here, hedges boxed her in and only an occasional lighted farmhouse gave proof of human habitation.

  After the tensions of the day and the heat and noise of the hall, a headache was developing, not helped by the concentration of night-driving. She found herself longing for bed and the oblivion of sleep.

  But here at last were the outskirts of Lethbridge. The Marlton road entered the town just above the church, on Crossley Hill. She had only to drive down a few hundred yards, turn left into Westwood Avenue, and she was home.

  The house as she turned into the driveway was in complete darkness, without the usual light to welcome her. Una sat for a moment, staring up at its black shape looming in front of her. Then she picked up her case and handbag, got out of the car and locked it. The night was very still, but in the distance she heard the braying of an ambulance as it sped up the hill towards the hospital.

  Still she hesitated, aware of a strong reluctance to go inside. Then, bracing herself, she put her key in the door and let herself in.

  The darkness was absolute, no light showing under any of the doors, and, in its palpable obscurity, the sudden sound of voices set her heart clattering. It took her a moment to realize it was the television.

  Quickly she crossed the hall and pushed open the sitting-room door. Here, the darkness was partly alleviated by the flickering light from the set and a shaft of moonlight pouring through the uncurtained windows.

  She reached urgently for the switch and light flooded the room, blinding her night-attuned eyes. Malcolm was in his chair opposite the television, his back to the door. She said stridently, involuntarily, ‘Malcolm?’

  He did not reply, did not, as on previous occasions, wake with a start and turn apologetically to face her. A creeping sensation crawled over her skin and up into her hair. Slowly, giving his chair a wide berth, she moved round it until she could see him properly.

  He was slumped sideways, his head sunk on his chest, but she knew sickly that he was not asleep. Knew, because of the dark stickiness matting his hair and the gash above his temple from which, hours earlier, blood had gushed and later caked, leaving a brownish trail down the side of his face and on to his sweater.

  Una’s eyes stretched wide as the scene burned itself into her brain, forcing her to accept it. He was dead. Her husband was dead. Steeling herself, she approached him and felt the flaccid wrist. It was cold and there was, of course, no pulse.

  Behind her, a piercing scream rang out, shattering the silence. Her heart leaping to her throat, she stumbled over and switched off the set.

  5

  ‘Malcolm Bennett?’ Webb said, stunned disbelief in his voice.

  ‘I know; I can’t believe it myself.’ Superintendent Turner’s own voice vibrated with shock. ‘I’m sorry, Dave, I know you both go back a long way.’

  ‘But — how? Where?’

  ‘At home. He’d been coshed over the head. Been dead some time, apparently. His wife found him — she’d been out all evening. She phoned the station and of course I was notified at once. I got on to the ACC and he’d like you to take charge of the investigation.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll go over at once.’

  ‘See you there,’ Ray Turner said, and put down the phone. Hannah appeared in the sitting-room doorway. ‘Bad news?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘The worst. Malcolm Bennett’s dead. Under suspicious circumstances, at that.’

  Hannah’s eyes widened. ‘The man you met for lunch? Who remarried and—?’

  ‘The same,’ Webb returned grimly.

  She came quickly forward and took his hand. ‘Oh, David, I’m so sorry. How awful for you.’

  ‘Worse for Malcolm. I’ve got to go, love.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Leaving her standing in the hall, he let himself out of her flat and went clattering down the stairs.

  As long as he lived, Webb would never forget that drive to Lethbridge along the road which, so recently, he’d driven to meet Malcolm. Now, he was going to see him again — for the last time. It was impossible to believe, impossible that a friend of such long-st
anding was suddenly no longer there.

  He might have accepted a heart attack, Webb told himself — even a traffic accident. Those things happen. But murder and, despite official caution, it was almost certainly that — was totally unthinkable. In the early days, he and Malcolm had attended many murder scenes together. Now, irony of ironies, Malcolm was himself the victim.

  Policemen had been killed before, God knew, but usually as they went about their duty. To be brutally attacked in his own home was altogether different.

  Grimly, methodically, Webb prepared himself for what lay ahead, forcing down the personal loss to make way for a cold, balanced professionalism. And gradually, beneath the shock and grief, a deep, implacable anger began to grow. He welcomed it. It would make things easier.

  He hadn’t been to the Bennett house since Carol died, and as he drew up behind a row of cars, Webb was fleetingly grateful that at least she had been spared this. Having identified himself to the man at the gate, he went swiftly up the path and into the house, keeping to the prescribed area leading to the sitting-room. Ray Turner met him at the door, his face white and strained above his dark uniform. He put a quick hand on Webb’s arm.

  ‘OK, Dave?’

  From which Webb gathered his own face mirrored the superintendent’s. He nodded briskly. ‘So, what have we got?’

  Over Turner’s shoulder he could see the flashing of cameras as the SOCO photographer moved round the body, and momentarily closed his mind to the object of his attention.

  ‘It’s been made to look like a break-in.’

  ‘Made to?’ Webb repeated sharply.

  Turner raised his shoulders. ‘Pane broken in the back door. No tape or anything. It would have made the hell of a din, yet apparently Malcolm didn’t hear it and the killer was able to creep up on him and club him to death. His wife says the television was on, but even so—’