David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone

by Anthea Fraser

  The television. Oh God, the match Malcolm had been so keen not to miss. Ridiculously, Webb found himself hoping he’d been able to see at least a part of it. ‘Any lead on time of death?’

  ‘The doc says roughly nine hours ago — early afternoon, I suppose, but of course that’s only approximate. We’ll have a better idea after the PM. At least there’s no doubt about the murder weapon — it’s that heavy stick over there. Presumably the killer brought it with him. He used it to break the glass, too, before discarding it: there are splinters among the blood and hair.’

  Turner glanced at Webb’s wooden face and paused. Then he went on: ‘There’s been some vandalism, too. Photographs, ornaments and suchlike thrown on the floor and stamped on.

  ‘You say his wife found him? Where is she?’

  ‘In a car outside with WDC Grant. I’d hoped she might be friendly with another officer’s wife and could go there, but it seems she doesn’t know anyone.’

  ‘She keeps herself to herself,’ Webb said levelly.

  ‘So it appears. Trouble is, the relatives are a bit spread out — son in Frecklemarsh, one daughter in Chedbury, the other God knows where.’

  Webb frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘According to Mrs Bennett, they heard yesterday that she’d moved out of her boyfriend’s flat, but she can’t remember where she’s gone. Malcolm had the letter, but so far we haven’t unearthed it.’

  ‘They’ve been informed, the other two?’

  ‘The local police are dealing with it. But when we asked Mrs Bennett who she’d like to go to, she said she’d rather be alone. Can you believe it?’

  ‘I can, actually. They’re not her family, after all, and they’ve never been particularly friendly towards her.’

  ‘I see. Poor Malcolm.’

  ‘There must be—’

  Beside them the telephone shrilled, making both men jump. Turner took out a handkerchief and used it to lift the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’

  A hesitant voice came over the wire. ‘Is that the police?’

  ‘Yes, Superintendent Turner speaking. Who’s that?’ He motioned Webb to come closer.

  ‘Barbara Wood, DCI Bennett’s sister-in-law. My nephew has just telephoned with the — the news.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Wood.’

  ‘Miss Wood,’ she corrected him. There was a pause while she steadied her voice. Then she said, ‘I was wondering where Mrs Bennett is?’

  ‘At the moment she’s with a woman officer. Frankly, we have a bit of a problem; she doesn’t want to go to any of her stepchildren.’

  ‘That’s why I’m phoning: she must come to me. In any case, I’m the nearest — thirty-three, Coombes Crescent, Shillingham.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, Miss Wood.’

  ‘It’s what Malcolm would have wanted. I’ll make up the spare bed.’

  Turner said tentatively, ‘There’s just a possibility—’

  ‘If she refuses to come, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll expect her shortly.’

  The last few words were spoken in a rush, and the phone went dead. Control running out, apparently. God, what a business it was.

  ‘Shall I go and have a word with Una?’ Webb offered. ‘I have met her, with Malcolm.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave. If she’s agreeable, Miss Grant can take her straight there; we don’t need her any more tonight.’

  As he walked down the path, Webb realized for the first time that he had no coat. He’d run straight out from Hannah’s flat without bothering to return to his own for outdoor clothes. Now, he was belatedly aware of the coldness of the night, accentuated, no doubt, by his continuing state of shock.

  He approached the first car, in which he could make out two figures, and tapped on the glass. A young woman leaned across her companion to open the door.

  ‘DCI Webb, Shillingham.’ His eyes went to Una’s motionless figure. She sat stiff and straight and hadn’t even turned her head in his direction.

  ‘Mrs Bennett — Una — it’s David Webb. We’ve met a couple of times.’

  ‘I remember.’ Her voice was low but firm.

  ‘I’m so very sorry about Malcolm. It just doesn’t seem possible.’

  She inclined her head, still not looking at him.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Wood’s just phoned. She’d like you to go and stay with her till you can get back in the house again.’

  ‘Barbara?’ She did turn then, her face a pale disc in the half-light. ‘I can’t possibly go to Barbara.’

  ‘Una, you must go somewhere. You can’t sit here all night.’

  ‘But I’ll be going back inside soon.’

  ‘Not for a while, I’m afraid. It could take four or five days before—’

  ‘Days? But I thought they’d done all their photographing and everything?’

  ‘They’ll make a much more thorough examination in daylight. It could take a long time.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘You’re sure it was Barbara who phoned? You didn’t ring her?’

  ‘No, she contacted us.’

  ‘And it was she who made the offer? No one asked if I could go to her?’

  ‘No,’ Webb repeated patiently, ‘it was her own idea. It was the reason she rang.’

  Another pause. Then, ‘Very well, I suppose I’ll have to.’

  Over her head, Webb caught the young policewoman’s raised eyebrows. He said, ‘Miss Grant, perhaps you’d help Mrs Bennett to pack a few things and then take her to thirty-three, Coombes Crescent, Shillingham. Miss Wood will be expecting you.’ He turned back to Una. ‘Have you something to help you sleep?’

  ‘The doctor gave me some pills.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll call round and see you in the morning.’

  Slapping his arms for warmth, he hurried back up the path and this time forced himself to go into the room where his friend lay. For several long minutes he stood looking down at the bloodstained white face, the slack mouth. Don’t worry, old mate, he thought silently, we’ll get the bastard, whoever he is.

  He was about to turn away when he paused, glancing back at the dead man’s hands. ‘Where’s his ring?’ he asked one of the SOCOs.

  ‘Wasn’t wearing one, Guv. Should he have been?’

  ‘He was earlier in the week, one with a green stone.’

  ‘Well, several things are missing, Mrs Bennett says. The killer must have taken it.’

  Without replying, Webb turned and walked out of the room.

  Barbara must have been watching for the police car, because the door opened as they went up the path, spilling welcome light into the darkness. To Debbie Grant’s relief, the two women greeted each other calmly, Mrs Bennett saying simply, ‘This is good of you, Barbara.’ They were the first words she’d spoken for some time. Thankfully, Debbie released her charge.

  ‘The DCI will be in to see you tomorrow, Mrs Bennett. I hope you manage to sleep.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The suitcase was handed over, the policewoman went back down the path and Una allowed herself to be led into the house. It was warm and dimly lit and she dutifully handed over her coat. It was the first time she’d removed it since she’d put it on in Steeple Bayliss, in another existence. Barbara, she noted dispassionately, was shaking, though her voice was steady.

  ‘Can I get you a drink? Whisky or brandy or something?’

  ‘I’d better not, thank you; I’ve been given sleeping pills.’

  ‘Of course — I should have thought. A hot drink, then?’

  ‘Tea would be wonderful.’

  Barbara hurried out to make it and Una stood in the middle of the room, looking about her. She’d been here only a couple of times, in the early days of her marriage, and remembered little about it. They’d had dinner, she recalled, glancing towards the back of the room where a small, gate-legged table stood, bearing a vase of daffodils. Presumably it opened out for social occasions.

  A fire was burning in the grate and a basket of logs stood on
the hearth. Una moved over to it, holding out her chilled hands to its warmth. The fact that she was here, in the middle of the night in Barbara’s house, only added to the unreality. It was all a dream, and sometime soon she would wake up. It couldn’t be soon enough.

  She was still standing there when Barbara came back with the tea-tray.

  ‘I love the open fire,’ Barbara said, ‘though, since I’m out all week, I light it only at weekends.’

  Una watched her pour the tea and Barbara glanced up at her. ‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down?’

  It took a conscious effort to do so, but her hands as she took the cup and saucer were steadier than Barbara’s.

  ‘I — don’t know if you want to talk about it?’

  ‘There’s nothing to say, except what you must already know. I was out at the concert, and when I arrived home I found him.’ She drank the entire cup of scalding liquid.

  ‘Tim said there’d been a break-in?’

  ‘Yes; glass all over the floor, and several things missing. I don’t know how many — they won’t let me look till they’ve checked for prints.’

  ‘Do they know when—?’

  ‘They haven’t said, but it must have been hours ago. The — the blood was dry.’

  Barbara’s hand went to her mouth. ‘I tried to phone him,’ she said after a minute. ‘Perhaps he was already—’

  Una’s head snapped up. ‘Oh?’

  An explanation seemed called for. ‘I remembered you were out and thought he might like to pop round for supper. It was on the spur of the moment, really. But there was no reply.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About four, I think.’

  ‘The police might be interested to hear that.’

  There was a silence, while Una merely sat and Barbara tried to think what to say. She desperately needed to be alone, to give way to the grief which of necessity she had so far suppressed, and which was now welling up inside her; but she owed it to Malcolm’s widow to be as calm as she was. To her untold relief, Una stood up.

  ‘I think, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go upstairs now.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll show you the way. There’s a hot-water bottle in the bed and clean towels on the rail.’ She lifted the suitcase. ‘You have your own toilet things?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  The stilted conversation could have been between strangers meeting for the first time, but the formality was helping both of them, as they instinctively realized. Slowly, dragging herself by the banisters like an old woman, Una followed her hostess up the narrow staircase.

  *

  There was little more they could do that night. An incident van had arrived, manned by an office manager and skeletal staff. The SOCOs had finished and departed, as had the Coroner’s Officer and the pathologist. Finally, the cause of all the activity was wrapped in a body bag and carried out of his home to the waiting hearse. In spontaneous tribute, the officers still at the house silently lined the path as the sombre little procession passed. Then the police guard took up their positions, and the rest of them were free to go.

  It was after three when Webb reached his flat, and as he went inside, he noticed a slip of paper which had been pushed under the door. Wearily he stooped to retrieve it. It read: Come down, whatever time you get home. The front door isn’t locked. Hannah.

  Cold, miserable and indescribably weary, he blessed her for her understanding and lost no time in complying. As she’d said, her front door was on the latch and he opened it softly, releasing the catch as he closed it behind him.

  A dim light was burning in the hallway, sufficient for him to make his way to her bedroom. The room was silent except for her rhythmic breathing. He undressed quickly, shivering, and slipped into the bed beside her.

  ‘David?’

  ‘Sorry to wake you, but—’

  ‘I wanted you to.’ She reached for him. ‘My goodness, you are cold!’

  ‘And you’re gorgeously warm.’ He held her closely, his face in her soft hair.

  ‘Was it awful?’

  ‘Pretty bloody. In more ways than one.’

  She shuddered, her hands rhythmically rubbing his cold back. ‘How was his wife?’

  ‘Remote as always. Impossible to know what she’s feeling.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no.’ As the warmth of her body dispelled his coldness, he began to relax for the first time since he’d left her, four long hours before. His eyelids closed as the worst of the horror drained away and, eventually, he slept.

  Webb called in at Carrington Street the next morning. There were more people about than was normal for a Sunday, but the atmosphere was subdued, everyone going about their business with none of the usual quips. There was, however, a noticeable feeling of companionship, a drawing together in their shared grief.

  Not many of them had known Malcolm personally, Webb realized, but in death he was one of them, an upholder to the best of his ability of law and order, who had been brutally struck down. One and all, they were determined to avenge him.

  Alan Crombie looked up from his desk as Webb reached his office. ‘Terrible news, Dave.’

  ‘Yep.’ Webb paused. ‘You live in Coombes Crescent, don’t you, Alan? Happen to know a Miss Wood, at number thirty-three?’

  ‘Wood? Can’t say I do; we’re down at the East Parade end. Why?’

  ‘She’s Malcolm’s sister-in-law. I must have met her at his wedding, but I don’t remember. Anyway, she’s looking after his wife for the moment.’

  ‘Anything to go on yet?’

  ‘Precious little. Ray Turner reckons the window was broken after the killing, otherwise Malcolm would have heard it and gone to investigate. As it was, he was still sitting in his chair.’

  ‘So what does that mean? That he admitted his killer?’

  ‘Don’t know. You’d think if he’d had anyone with him, he’d have turned off the TV. Unless, of course, he’d invited someone to come and watch the match. That might be worth investigating. Anyway, at the moment it looks like a break-in, and a malicious one at that. Ornaments deliberately smashed and various things missing, including his ring, which must have been wrenched off his finger after death.’

  ‘Sick,’ Crombie commented.

  Webb sat down at his desk, dialled the Lethbridge station and spoke for some time, first to the DI, then DS Carter, asking questions, making notes, issuing orders. The house-to-house was already underway.

  ‘I’ll be in by four o’clock, in time for the press conference,’ he told Carter. ‘First, I want to see as many of the family as I can, starting with the widow. At least it’s Sunday, so they should all be at home. Have you come up with an address for the younger daughter?’

  ‘No, sir, no one seems to know where she is.’

  ‘I don’t want her hearing the news from the media. Pull out the stops, will you, Sergeant? And if you come up with anything, you can reach me on my mobile. See you later.’

  He put down the phone and sat staring at it for several minutes, turning possibilities over in his mind. Then, with a sigh, he stood up.

  ‘This is the part I hate,’ he commented. ‘Still, it’s no good putting it off. See you, Alan.’

  Jackson was waiting for him, his normally cheerful face sombre. ‘Sorry about DCI Bennett, Guv,’ he said as they walked out to the car. ‘Being a friend of yours, I mean.’

  ‘Thanks, Ken.’

  ‘Do you reckon his death has anything to do with the shop raids?’

  ‘I haven’t got round to thinking about that. Seems unlikely; it’s not as if he was on to anyone.’

  ‘Someone might have thought he was.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be looked into, like all the cases he was working on. Lethbridge have already made a start on it. OK, Coombes Crescent first stop. Number thirty-three.’

  Barbara Wood opened the door to them. There were shadows under her eyes, purple as bruises, though she was outwardly calm.
Something about her scratched at Webb’s memory; he’d seen her somewhere, more recently than either of Malcolm’s weddings, but he couldn’t think where.

  He introduced Jackson and she let them through the bright, narrow hall and showed them into the sitting-room, where Una awaited them. Jackson looked at her with interest; he’d heard the odd comment about the second Mrs Bennett.

  She was certainly no beauty, he thought, as the governor introduced him and they sat down; tall and thin, with narrow feet and large, capable hands — a lady, he judged, well able to take care of herself. Her hair, in a short bob, was very dark, as were her eyes under strong, straight brows. Jackson remembered DCI Bennett as an amiable bear of a man, and wondered what on earth had possessed him to marry such a gorgon.

  Webb, in his role of interviewer, had thankfully reverted to formality.

  ‘I’d like you to tell me, Mrs Bennett, when you last saw your husband alive.’

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ she said at once, her voice low and pleasant. ‘He left for work after breakfast, as usual.’

  ‘Do you know what his plans were?’

  ‘He intended to come home at lunchtime and watch the match on television.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I went to the hairdresser’s in Shillingham, then on to Steeple Bayliss, to sing in a concert. I didn’t get back till nearly quarter to eleven.’

  Gently he took her through her discovery of the body, which was much as Ray Turner had outlined the previous evening. There was nothing new. ‘And I believe some things are missing?’ he prompted.

  ‘A few pieces of silver have gone from the dining-room, and the drawers were pulled out of the bureau — looking for money, I suppose.’

  ‘And your husband’s ring?’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘His ring,’ Webb repeated. ‘He wasn’t wearing it. I wondered if you might have removed it, for safekeeping?’

  She gave a little shudder. ‘No.’

  ‘Were you aware of anyone with a grudge against him? Who might have wished him harm?’

  She shook her head positively. ‘Malcolm was very easygoing; he didn’t make enemies.’

  Webb let that pass; in his social life, it was probably true, but there were few policemen who didn’t attract hostility merely by doing their job. He changed tack. ‘Did he mention inviting anyone to watch the match with him?’