David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone

by Anthea Fraser

  Webb went quickly down the steps, Jackson at his heels, and they got into the car. As the sergeant started it and they moved away, Webb reflected that the next couple of hours should prove interesting. With luck, they might also prove instructive.

  8

  It was eleven-thirty by the time they got back to Shillingham, and the supermarket car park was crowded. Dodging between trolleys, Webb and Jackson made their way inside and asked a girl on the checkout where Steven Clark was.

  ‘Stacking the shelves in aisle four, last time I saw him,’ she replied without looking up.

  He was still there. Rounding the corner into the aisle, Webb took advantage of a minute or two’s undetected inspection of their quarry. He was a tall young man, with the kind of brash good looks that would appeal to an impressionable girl, though his hair was overlong for Webb’s taste. He was engaged in lifting giant packs of cereals from the box at his feet and arranging them on the shelves above, without — and here Webb didn’t blame him — any open show of enthusiasm for the task. He wore a blue uniform overall with a badge on his lapel that confirmed his identity. To Webb, he looked depressingly like dozens of other young men he’d faced in interview rooms over the years. He wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him, but that didn’t make him a murderer.

  He moved slowly down the aisle, past young mothers with fractious children and elderly ladies peering at illegible shopping lists.

  ‘Mr Clark?’ he said pleasantly.

  The young man turned, and as he caught sight of Webb and the card he was holding, his eyes widened in alarm. Jackson tensed, thinking he was going to make a run for it. Then the moment passed and the governor was adding, ‘We’d like a word.’

  Clark’s eyes darted about as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘What about? I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’

  He shook his head, looking nervously over his shoulder, but if he was hoping to delay the interview, he was out of luck. ‘Then we’ll go to the car park,’ Webb said.

  Clark made one last, desperate attempt at evasion. ‘But I’m not supposed—’

  ‘I’ll explain, if the need arises.’

  In silence the three of them went out of the automatic doors and down the steps. Webb made for the area with the fewest cars, and turned to face the young man. Jackson, propping himself against a handy Vauxhall, took out his pen and pocket book.

  ‘Now, you are Steven John Clark of fifty-nine, Dick Lane, Shillingham?’

  A nod.

  ‘And you own a blue Ford Escort, registration number H 674 DGH?’

  Clark looked bewildered. ‘Is it the tax disc? I thought—’

  ‘Are you the owner of that car?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He waited nervously, his fingers twisting at the buttons on his overall.

  ‘Could you tell me, sir, why you were parked outside twenty-three, Westwood Avenue, Lethbridge on the evening of Wednesday the eighth of March?’

  ‘Twenty—?’

  ‘The home,’ Webb said inexorably, ‘of DCI Bennett, who was murdered last Saturday.’

  Bewilderment turned swiftly to panic. ‘Oh, now look, you can’t pin that on me! I’d never—’

  ‘No one,’ Webb said clearly, ‘is trying to pin anything on anyone. You don’t deny you were outside the house that evening?’

  ‘I dunno what date it was, but his daughter’s my girlfriend. She’d gone back home and I wanted to speak to her.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No; I was going to go and knock, but decided not to.’

  ‘You took your time deciding.’

  ‘No law against that, is there?’

  ‘How long have you known Miss Bennett?’

  He shrugged. ‘Two, three years.’

  ‘You were both living at the same address, I believe?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But not any longer?’

  Clark flushed and shook his head.

  ‘What about last Saturday? Did you go back to the house again, looking for her?’

  ‘No!’ The reply was instant and emphatic.

  ‘What did you do last Saturday, Mr Clark?’

  ‘I was working, wasn’t I?’

  ‘All day?’

  His eyes fell. ‘Most of it.’

  ‘What time did you leave here?’

  There was a pause, then he said unwillingly, ‘All right, if you must know I skived off early. Three-ish, I suppose.’

  Damn! Webb thought. It would be checked, of course, but allowing for the estimated time of death and the fact that Lethbridge was a twenty-minute drive away, he was probably in the clear. Nevertheless, something was evidently bothering the lad and he smoothly continued with his questioning.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Home, to watch the match.’

  ‘Any of your friends with you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘So after about three o’clock, no one can confirm where you were?’

  ‘I told you, I was at home.’ Clark’s voice had risen, and a woman loading her shopping into the boot of her car turned and stared at them.

  Webb tried another angle. ‘You’d met Mr Bennett, I suppose?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ Clark answered sullenly. ‘I should have gone to his birthday dinner, but I copped out.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Me and Jane were having problems, and the last thing I needed was an evening with her bloody family.’

  ‘So when was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Around Christmas, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you get on well?’ Webb asked, knowing the answer.

  The young man snorted. ‘What do you think? Didn’t like us living together, did he?’

  ‘And you resented his influence on Jane?’

  Clark’s eyes fell and he did not reply.

  ‘When she went home for those few days,’ Webb persisted, ‘were you worried he might persuade her not to go back to you?’

  ‘’Course I was. That’s why I went there.’

  ‘But she did come back.’

  ‘Only for about a week, then she left for good.’

  ‘And you blamed her father?’

  ‘And that aunt of hers, the schoolteacher. She didn’t like me, I could tell.’ He said suddenly, ‘Has Jane said anything?’

  ‘About what?’

  He coloured and looked away. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Webb regarded him thoughtfully. Another word with Jane could be beneficial.

  ‘You’ve nothing else to tell us, Mr Clark?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Very well; that’s all for the moment.’

  Clark glanced from Webb to Jackson and back again, an expression of almost ludicrous relief on his face. ‘You mean I can go?’

  ‘For the moment, yes.’

  He needed no second telling, but started off towards the doors of the supermarket at a loping run. The two detectives stood looking after him.

  ‘He’s hiding something, Guv,’ Jackson opined.

  ‘I’m with you on that, Ken. Jane might know what.’

  ‘No saying if she’d tell us, though.’

  ‘We’ll face that when the time comes, but for the moment, Mrs Bennett is our next port of call.’

  But the house in Coombes Crescent seemed to be deserted. Webb rang and knocked several times before a woman coming up the path next door volunteered the information that Miss Wood was out.

  ‘Out where, ma’am, do you know?’

  ‘At school, I should think. She teaches at Ashbourne, you know.’ It was said with respect, and Webb hid a grin.

  ‘What about the lady who’s staying with her?’ he asked. ‘Oh, I don’t know anything about that.’

  Webb nodded his thanks and the woman let herself into the adjoining house.

  ‘She wouldn’t have gone to work and left Mrs Bennett alone, Ken,’ he said. ‘Which leaves us with only one conclusion: she must have gone b
ack to work, too.’

  Jackson was scandalized. ‘Two days after her husband was murdered?’

  ‘It’s known as the stiff upper lip,’ Webb said, ‘or something,’ he added darkly, walking back down the path. ‘Did you get her work address?’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’ Jackson fumbled through the pages of his pocket book. ‘Drew’s Translation Services, Lowther Building, King Street.’

  ‘Off we go, then.’

  King Street was, as usual, congested with traffic and Jackson pulled up on a yellow line while Webb scribbled ‘Police on official duty’ and propped the note and log book on the dashboard.

  According to the ornate board in the foyer, the firm they wanted was on the second floor, and as they emerged from the lift they were confronted by a frosted glass door bearing its name. Webb pushed it open and they went inside.

  The foyer in which they found themselves would have done credit to a country house — thick carpet, flowers, sofas, and low tables stacked with magazines. An attractive woman at a mahogany desk looked up and smiled at them.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Have you an appointment?’ Webb introduced himself and Jackson, seeing her expression change. ‘Is Mrs Bennett in?’

  ‘Er — yes, yes, she is. Just one moment and I’ll tell her you’re here.’

  She did not, as Webb expected, lift the intercom on her desk, but went along a short passage, knocked at a door, and disappeared inside. A peaceful silence descended, though he was aware that behind the closed doors a number of people were hard at work. Only ten years ago, the air would have been filled with the clatter of typewriters. Now, word-processors made life more pleasant not only for their operators but for everyone in the vicinity.

  The receptionist reappeared and beckoned to them and they obediently walked towards her, their feet silent on the thick carpet.

  Una Bennett was seated at her desk and rose as they entered the room. She was wearing the same navy suit as the last time they’d seen her, and Webb reflected that she had not yet been allowed home to replenish her wardrobe.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bennett. You’ve taken some tracking down; we went to Coombes Crescent looking for you.’

  Her hand was cool in his. ‘There was nothing useful I could do there,’ she said. ‘How can I help you, Chief Inspector? Has there been a development? Please sit down, both of you.’

  She gestured towards two chairs facing her desk and sat down again behind it. Webb was ironically aware of the change in status thus established.

  ‘There seems to be an inconsistency in your statement,’ he began. ‘We understood, from what you told us, that you went to the hairdresser’s in Shillingham, then on to the rehearsal in Steeple Bayliss?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’s correct?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then can you explain how two of your neighbours report having seen you at home around one o’clock?’

  She stared at him for a moment, then her face cleared. ‘How stupid of me — I quite forgot. While I was at the hairdresser’s, I realized I’d left my blouse at home, and I needed it for the concert. I had to make a detour to collect it.’

  ‘How long were you at the house?’

  ‘Less than two minutes. I ran straight upstairs, took it out of the airing-cupboard, and left again at once. As it was, I was almost late for rehearsal.’

  As simple as that, Webb thought. It had the ring of truth about it. But still —

  ‘You didn’t see your husband while you were there?’

  ‘Of course not. He wasn’t in.’

  ‘He must have arrived soon afterwards.’

  ‘So?’ She regarded him coolly. ‘Are you suggesting I lay in wait for him and killed him before going on to the concert?’

  To his annoyance, Webb felt at a disadvantage. ‘Of course not, but we like to tie up loose ends.’

  ‘It’s a pity my neighbours have nothing better to do than report my comings and goings.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or did you send someone to ask specifically if they’d seen me?’

  ‘House-to-house inquiries were made as a matter of course,’ Webb answered stiffly, ‘and everyone was asked who they’d seen entering or leaving the house.’

  ‘Talk about the net-curtain brigade,’ she said scornfully.

  ‘Not appropriate, actually, Mrs Bennett,’ Webb was stung to retort. ‘One lady was working in her garden, and you followed the other home up the hill. Perhaps you didn’t notice her.’

  She was frowning slightly, turning her pen in her fingers. ‘Did they report seeing anyone else?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered an odd sensation I had as I was leaving the house. As though I wasn’t alone.’

  ‘You heard a noise of some sort?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she exclaimed impatiently, ‘or I’d obviously have investigated. It was — just a feeling, something I can’t explain. I decided I was imagining it.’

  ‘But now you’re not so sure? Did you go in the kitchen?’

  ‘I glanced into both it and the sitting-room, wondering if Malcolm was home after all — in fact, I think I called his name — but no one was there.’

  ‘And obviously there was no glass on the kitchen floor?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  Webb studied her, trying to see what attraction she’d held for Malcolm. Her skin was excellent, he conceded, her nose straight and her eyes, as he’d told Hannah, striking. Yet she would never be described as pretty. And suddenly he realized what she lacked: that innate ability to make the most of her assets, present herself to advantage. Instead, she’d developed a brusque, take-it-or-leave-it attitude which had the effect of making his — and seemingly many other people’s — hackles rise.

  He thought sardonically of those old American films where the plain but efficient heroine suddenly removes her spectacles, to become instantly and unexpectedly beautiful. But Una had no spectacles to remove.

  She looked up, catching his eyes on her, and he said quickly, ‘Can you think of anything unusual that happened in the last few weeks, either at home or to do with Malcolm’s work?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Jane’s visit the other week?’ Webb prompted.

  Una stared at him. ‘What on earth—?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be something significant, Mrs Bennett, just anything at all that was out of the ordinary, someone visiting who’d not been before, for instance?’

  ‘Well, as you say, Jane was with us for a couple of nights, but there’s been nothing else that I can think of.’

  ‘No one came to the house for the first time?’ Webb persisted.

  ‘Only the new cleaner.’

  ‘When did she start?’

  ‘The day after Malcolm’s birthday — the seventh. She comes twice a week — which reminds me, she’s due again tomorrow.’ Her voice ended interrogatively.

  ‘I doubt if Scenes of Crime will have finished by then. Could I have her name and address?’

  ‘Mrs Jones, but I’ve no idea where she lives. I suppose I have a note of it somewhere.’

  ‘Do you employ anyone else — a gardener, for instance?’

  ‘No, my husband does — did the garden himself.’

  ‘What about tradesmen — laundry, newspaper deliveries, postmen? Any of them change lately?’

  ‘If they had, I wouldn’t have known. The only one I see is the postman, and then only if something won’t go through the box. The laundry comes on Fridays while the cleaner’s there — I leave money ready — and the newspapers are paid monthly by cheque.’ Her impatience began to show through again. ‘Though how any of those people can have the remotest connection with Malcolm’s death, I can’t imagine.’

  Nor could Webb. Signalling to Jackson, he got to his feet, thanked Una for her help, and left her to return to her work.

  *

  It was during the lunch break that Hannah, coming out of her study, almost collided with Barbara Wood.

&nb
sp; The woman murmured an apology and would have hurried on, but Hannah, alarmed by her pallor, caught at her arm. ‘Miss Wood, can you spare me a moment?’

  She gave a quick, desperate little smile. ‘If you don’t mind, Miss James, not just—’

  A group of girls came chattering down the corridor, drowning her words. They broke off on seeing the members of staff, and continued to the dining hall in the obligatory silence. As they passed, Barbara instinctively turned her face away from them and Hannah was shocked by the strain on it. She drew her into the study and closed the door.

  ‘Sit down, Barbara. You look in need of a breathing space.’ The two women had become friends over the years, and used each other’s Christian names when they were alone.

  Barbara remained standing, looking towards the door as if undecided whether to stay. Then she gave a choking little gasp and her face crumpled. Covering it with her hands, she began to weep, deep, shuddering sobs racking her body.

  Hannah put an arm round her and guided her to a chair. Then, walking to the window, she stood looking out at the gravel drive and the high nets bordering the tennis courts until the painful sobbing behind her had eased.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Barbara said at last in a clogged voice. ‘I’ve been fighting this all morning, and was making for the privacy of the cloakroom—’

  ‘—when I waylaid you? I could see something was very wrong.’ Hannah came back and perched on the edge of her desk. Though she knew the reason for Barbara’s distress, she could not refer to it unless Barbara herself confided in her.

  Which, to Hannah’s relief, she proceeded to do. ‘We’ve had a family bereavement,’ she explained. ‘That police inspector who was murdered at the weekend was my late sister’s husband.’

  ‘Oh Barbara, I’m so sorry. How ghastly for you.’

  ‘I have his — widow staying with me at the moment, and felt I owed it to her not to break down. But of course it’s brought back my sister’s death, and it suddenly all got too much.’

  ‘Isn’t it rather soon to be back at work?’

  ‘Yes,’ Barbara admitted, ‘but since Una — his widow — was determined to go in today, I could hardly do otherwise.’

  Hannah looked pityingly at the white face and swollen, reddened eyes. David suspected Barbara might have been in love with Malcolm, but she’d explained the intensity of her grief by referring back to her sister’s death, which was quite plausible.