She said — since she wasn’t supposed to know — ‘Are there any children?’
Barbara nodded and blew her nose. ‘Grown up, of course, two of them married. But they’ve lost both parents in little over two years, and both of them well before their time.’
‘And his second wife — do they all get on well?’ Hannah felt justified in her probing; on the one hand, she sensed Barbara wanted — needed — to talk, and she herself seemed to be the only one to whom she could speak freely. And secondly, there was the possibility she might learn something useful to David.
‘Unfortunately not,’ Barbara was replying, her voice a little stronger now, which seemed to confirm Hannah’s diagnosis. ‘She can be difficult and the family find her heavy going, I’m afraid.’
‘How has she taken her husband’s death?’
‘Better than I have,’ Barbara retorted, then bit her lip.
Hannah felt it wise to call a break. ‘Look, you must eat to keep up your strength, but you’re in no fit state to go into the dining hall. Shall we have lunch on a tray in here? It would give you a chance to relax and rally your forces for the afternoon classes. Unless, of course, you’d rather go home? I’d quite understand if you would.’
Barbara looked up at her gratefully. ‘That’s awfully kind of you, Hannah; I’ll be all right for the afternoon, but lunch in here would be perfect. Thank you for being so understanding.’
‘Fine, then while I organize it I suggest you go and wash your face. It will make you feel better.’ And, with a little nod of approval as Barbara obediently rose to her feet, Hannah lifted the intercom.
*
Fortified by lunch at the Brown Bear, Webb and Jackson set off to interview the last member of the Bennett family, Tim, at the dental surgery in Kimberley Road.
‘The smell’s enough to give me the heebie-jeebies,’ Jackson confided as they pushed open the door, ‘let alone the sound of that drill. My teeth are starting to ache in sympathy!’
Webb strode up to the counter, where three receptionists sat behind plaques bearing the names of the three dentists. ‘I’d like to see Mr Bennett,’ he told the appropriate young woman.
‘Have you an appointment, sir?’
‘No, I’m Chief Inspector Webb; it’s about his father’s death.’
Her face sobered. ‘Of course, sir. If you’ll just wait till he’s finished with this patient, I’ll slip you in before his next appointment.’
‘Thank you.’
Webb glanced into the open-plan waiting-room alongside and, since there was no help for it, perched on one of the less than comfortable chairs, Jackson beside him. Three or four people were dotted about, pretending, through concentrated reading of their magazines, that they hadn’t heard the conversation at the counter. Webb wondered which was Tim’s next patient; no doubt he or she would be simmering with resentment at the anticipated delay.
A door opposite opened and a woman and child came out. Webb looked up expectantly, but one of the other receptionists called, ‘Mr Hayward, please,’ and an elderly man near Jackson got hurriedly to his feet and disappeared into the room.
The next door to open seemed more hopeful. As a youth emerged, Tim’s receptionist came out from behind the counter and went in, appearing a moment later to call, ‘Chief Inspector — if you’d like to come through now?’
Webb lumbered to his feet, glad of release from the constricting chair. Tim Bennett, wearing a white coat, came to meet him with his hand extended.
‘Mr Webb — good to see you again, even under these circumstances. Do sit down.’
Webb introduced Jackson, who avoided looking at the dental instruments as he took the indicated seat. Tim Bennett, being the eldest of Malcolm’s children, was the one Webb remembered most clearly. He was a thickset young man with rather a heavy face, already, at thirty, showing signs of developing his father’s jowls. He had thick, tow-coloured hair, slightly darker than his sisters’, and hazel eyes.
‘Sorry I missed you at the house,’ he was saying. ‘Jenny said you’d called.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, and it occurred to Webb that he wasn’t as much in control as he appeared.
‘I wanted a word with all of you as soon as possible, really just to see if you could shed any light on what’s happened.’
‘Positively none. It’s — unbelievable. How anyone—’ He broke off.
‘Your father didn’t mention any problems — disagreements with anyone, which might have led to resentment?’
‘Not to me. The last time I saw him was at his birthday party, and no serious topics came up. He said he’d met you for lunch.’
Webb nodded, and Tim continued awkwardly, ‘I know you and Dad were old friends. It meant a great deal to him.’
‘To me, too.’ Webb cleared his throat. ‘Did you get the impression he was worried about anything, putting on a brave face for the party, perhaps?’
‘Not worried, exactly, but there wasn’t much spark about him. After Mum died it slowly began to come back, but then it disappeared again.’ He glanced at Webb from beneath his brows. ‘I wondered about his marriage; he’d never have discussed it with us, but Jane found them having a row a couple of nights later.’
‘You don’t care for your stepmother?’
‘Can’t stand her,’ Tim said frankly. ‘Poor old Dad — he wouldn’t have had much “tender loving care” from that one. If she’d only been home with him, as she should have been, this would never have happened.’
‘That’s a bit sweeping,’ Webb felt impelled to protest. ‘It would only hold true if it had been a random attack, a chance break-in.’
Tim looked at him closely. ‘And you don’t think it was?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know what the hell I think. We’re having to feel our way slowly on this one, and it goes against the grain. Everyone’s so strung up, we have to guard against haring off in the wrong direction in our anxiety to nail someone.’
Tim nodded and surreptitiously glanced at his watch. Webb stood up. ‘We mustn’t take up any more of your time.’
‘You’ll keep in touch, won’t you? Let me know how things are going?’
‘Of course. And don’t worry, Tim, we’ll get him, however long it takes.’
That evening, at the suggestion of the Assistant Chief Constable, Webb was interviewed on regional television, grateful for the presence of the media liaison officer, who kept the questioners in check.
As he gave the carefully worded answers, he’d the uncanny feeling that somewhere out there, in front of one of the thousands of sets tuned to the programme, the killer was also watching and listening. Webb hoped grimly that he would have a sleepless night.
9
Webb had assigned the following morning to interviewing Lethbridge CID, together with those in uniform who’d had contact with Bennett. First, though, he put a call through to the Crown Prosecution Service and was connected with a solicitor by the name of Terence Ryan.
‘DCI Webb, Mr Ryan, from Shillingham. I just wanted to let you know I’m investigating the death of Chief Inspector Bennett.’
He waited while the solicitor murmured his condolences.
‘Thanks. We have a rather tricky situation here, which I thought you should know about.’ Quickly, he outlined the omission from Una’s alibi and the unusually long time her journey to Steeple Bayliss had taken, thereby allowing for her having left home later than she’d claimed.
‘It might be nothing,’ he ended, ‘but I thought it was as well to contact you, in case we suddenly need the weight of the law behind us. I’ll keep in touch.’
As he put the phone down it started to ring and he lifted it again. It was a call from the house in Westwood Avenue.
‘A woman’s just turned up, Guv,’ the Scenes-of-Crime man informed him. ‘Says she’s the cleaning lady. She’s heard about the murder, and didn’t know if she was expected to come in as usual.’
‘Right, Phil, thanks; I’m glad she’s surfaced — we were wanting a wor
d. Hang on to her and I’ll send a couple of men along.’ He paused. ‘How much longer will you be there?’
‘We’ve all but finished. Should be out by lunchtime.’ Webb put down the phone and lifted the intercom, wondering whether Una Bennett would now return home. No doubt it would suit Barbara Wood if she did.
Having arranged for Mrs Jones to be interviewed, he began his delicate task.
None of the officers he interviewed had anything but praise for their dead colleague — which, though understandable, did not rule out the possibility that one of them had killed him. Particular attention was paid to anyone Bennett had disciplined recently, but he’d been an easy-going man, not given to draconian punishments, and it seemed unlikely Webb would find a lead there.
Brian Stratton, seen in his turn, volunteered the information that Bennett had seemed particularly low on the morning after his birthday.
‘We arrived for work at the same time, and he was looking very down in the mouth. I kidded him about having a hangover.’
‘He didn’t say what was wrong?’
‘No, I wish now I’d probed a bit deeper, but I didn’t like to. Malcolm was a private chap, and he’d had his share of worries over the years.’
‘Have you met Mrs Bennett?’
Stratton grinned. ‘Association of ideas? I’ve met her a couple of times, but she’s not one for joining in social gatherings. Different from his first wife as chalk and cheese — but you’d know that yourself.’ He paused. ‘Do you still think the killer gained entry by conventional means?’
‘It seems that way, certainly, though he was canny enough to break the glass from the outside. In fact, it was something Mrs Bennett said that strengthened the theory, though it might not amount to anything.’
‘What was that?’
‘She popped back to the house on Saturday for something she’d forgotten, arriving just before one. Simply went in, collected it, and was on her way out again when, as she put it, she had the feeling she was not alone. Even called out for Malcolm, apparently, but no sign of him.’
Stratton frowned. ‘So?’
‘The point is, she glanced into the kitchen, and if there’d been glass on the floor at that stage, she’d certainly have seen it. Now, I wouldn’t put her down as a fanciful woman, would you? So if she was right, and someone was already there, presumably waiting for Malcolm, he didn’t get in by breaking the glass in the door. That was done later, to make it look like a burglary. Which fits in with the Super’s contention that Malc wouldn’t have gone on sitting peacefully in his chair while someone knocked hell out of his back door.’
‘So the big question is, how did this mysterious person get into the house?’
Webb shrugged helplessly. ‘Ask me another. SOCO say there’s no sign of locks being forced, either on doors or windows. Perhaps he just said, “Open, bloody Sesame”.’
‘You’ve scrubbed the idea that Malcolm could have met the killer and taken him home?’
‘I haven’t scrubbed anything, Brian. Una’s “feeling” could have been just that after all. Let’s take a look at the cases Malcolm was involved with during the last month or two.’
Poring over Bennett’s notes and files took up the rest of the morning. Stratton had just left him and Webb was preparing to go to lunch when Carter knocked at the door.
‘Come in, Jeff. How was Mrs Jones?’
‘A nosey little woman, if you ask me, sir. I’m willing to bet she knew damn well she’d not be wanted today; just wanted to boast about being at the murder house.’
‘She’d already been there,’ Webb pointed out.
‘Ah, but she hadn’t seen the SOCOs in their overshoes and masks. Her eyes were out on stalks, I can tell you.’
Webb said drily, ‘I gather she didn’t make a favourable impression.’
‘Oh, she was all right. You can’t blame her for being curious.’
‘She’s not been working for them long, has she?’
‘Only a couple of weeks, she says, Tuesdays and Fridays. But she told us she won’t feel safe there any more. It’s my bet she’ll be handing in her notice.’
‘Poor Mrs Bennett. I hope for her sake SOCO have tidied the place up. Did this Jones woman make any comments about the family?’
‘I tried to draw her on that one, but without luck. She only saw the governor once, and that was last week, when she arrived early and he was finishing his breakfast. Come to that, she’s not seen much of his wife, either. As soon as she arrives, Mrs Bennett goes off to work.’
‘Was the vacancy advertised?’
‘I suppose so, but it’s pure chance she ever heard of it. It seems the previous cleaner’s husband was talking in the pub, saying they were moving up north and joking about how he’d had to behave himself while his wife worked at the Bennetts’. Mrs Jones’s son overheard him, and knowing his mother was looking for work, passed it on.’
‘OK, Jeff, thanks.’ As the sergeant left the room, Webb pulled the phone towards him and dialled Una’s office number.
‘Sorry to come back to you, Mrs Bennett, but we’ve just interviewed your cleaner.’
He could almost hear Una’s frown. ‘What on earth for?’
‘She arrived at the house, wondering if she was expected as usual.’ He paused. ‘When you engaged her, had you advertised the post?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you have many replies?’
‘One or two, but Mrs Jones was the first and she had good references. She seemed anxious to have the job — spun me a hard-luck story about being a widow with a son on the dole — and since I hadn’t time to interview a stream of women, I was glad to settle with her.’
‘I see. Well, the men have finished at the house now. You’re free to move back whenever you like.’
There was a slight pause, then she said, ‘Thank you.’
‘The men should have left everything tidy, but you might like Mrs Jones to go in anyway.’ Not his place to say she was thinking of giving notice. A thought struck him. ‘Has she got a key?’
‘No, I wait until she arrives, and she pulls the front door to when she leaves — it has a Yale lock. Thank you, Chief Inspector, I’ll get in touch with her.’
*
Una replaced the phone and sat staring at it. She could go home. The thought brought an involuntary shudder. Her stay at Barbara’s had been a strain for both of them, but at least she’d had company, and it was so much more convenient, being back in Shillingham.
As the thought came, she realized that, without being aware of it, she had already decided to sell the house and move back here, find somewhere small and suitable like she’d had before her marriage.
The prospect brought a measure of comfort, of which she was instantly ashamed. For behind it lay an unacknowledged desire to shake off all remnants of her marriage as though it had never been — and this even before her husband’s funeral and the arrest of his murderer.
And yet, she reflected bleakly, it would have been better for everyone if the marriage never had been. Better for Malcolm, for Barbara, for the family — and much better for herself. For a short time it had seemed, miraculously, that her isolation was over, that she could have not only a husband but a ready-made family as well. She’d been a fool to think it would last.
But she should have tried harder, she thought, twisting her pen in her fingers. In Scotland, at the beginning, they’d been happy — there was no denying that. What had gone wrong? Was it her fault?
Yes, she acknowledged painfully; very largely, it was she who’d been to blame. Malcolm had bent over backwards to be accommodating, to help her make the transition. He had allowed her to alter the house that had been his home for twenty years, throwing out his first wife’s possessions, redecorating, refurbishing, without a murmur of protest — though his family had more than made up for his forbearance. As she should have anticipated; the house might be more attractive now, but it wouldn’t feel like their home. She should have given them time to acc
ept her before embarking on such changes, gone about them gradually.
So Malcolm had given her her head, but what concessions had she made? None. The word dropped into her mind like a pebble in a pool and she moved uncomfortably. Looking back, she saw that she’d consistently refused to alter her schedule, whether at work or the choral society, even when it meant missing police functions which were important to Malcolm, and which his wife was expected to attend. She had let him down all along the line, and, now that she realized the extent of her shortcomings, she was denied the chance to apologize.
The enormity of her guilt was a physical pain. How could she have been so narrow-minded, so entirely self-orientated? He was a good man, fair, kind, considerate. He had offered her everything he had, and she had taken it, giving nothing but her occasional presence in return. No wonder his family hated her. Perhaps, at the end, he had hated her himself.
She put her hands to her face, drawing down the skin under her clutching fingers. Must she live with this for the rest of her life? She’d heard bereavement always brought a sense of guilt, but seldom can that guilt have been more justified. If only she could put the clock back two years and start again!
A knock on the door brought her back to her surroundings. Slowly she lowered her hands and clasped them on the desk.
‘Come in,’ she said.
*
Oakacre was a small development off Fenton Street, which had been completed only during the last twelve months. It was a complex of mixed housing, catering for the elderly retired, young married couples and single people. Webb resented it as yet another encroachment on the open land which had surrounded the town when he was a boy. He’d played football here, he thought nostalgically as Jackson turned into the estate.
A parade of shops, new since his last visit, had already closed for the day, and Webb glanced at his watch. Six o’clock.
‘Number fifteen,’ he said. ‘Should be further along on the left.’
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