David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone

by Anthea Fraser

  They drew in to the kerb and walked up the short path. The door was opened by a fresh-faced girl with dark hair, who looked at them inquiringly.

  ‘We’d like to see Jane Bennett,’ Webb said, holding up his warrant card. ‘Is she at home?’

  The girl looked faintly alarmed. ‘Yes, she’s just got back. Come in.’

  The hall was small and square and filled with the aroma of cooking cheese. Jane herself, hearing voices, appeared in a doorway and, recognizing Webb, started forward.

  ‘You’ve found him? The man who killed Daddy?’

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid, but we’d like another word with you in the meantime.’

  With an apologetic glance at her friend, Jane led the way into the living-room and waved them to a chair. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We interviewed Steven Clark yesterday,’ Webb said, cautiously lowering himself on to the sagging cushions.

  Jane bit her lip, her eyes dropping. ‘Yes, he told me.’ Webb was surprised. ‘You’re still seeing him?’

  ‘No — that is, not really, but he waited for me yesterday, outside work.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He said he wanted me to go back to him, that he missed me, and that he was sorry about Dad. He was — quite nice.’

  ‘Will you go?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Jane, he seemed to think you might have told us something about him. What would that have been?’

  She flushed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you do,’ Webb said, ‘and I also think that’s the real reason he waited for you. To warn you he might have let something slip.’

  She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Do I have to tell you? It’s nothing to do with Dad, really.’

  ‘But he’s mixed up in something, isn’t he? Something illegal?’

  When she didn’t reply, he went on, ‘Look, Jane, I’ll be straight with you. I’m wondering whether, if he’s less than honest, he might know something about the shop-raiding gang, which’ — he raised his voice to cover her protest — ‘your father was looking into when he died.’

  She stared at him in horror. ‘You think Steve was connected with my father’s death? No! No, no no!’

  ‘We’re looking into everyone in any way linked with the cases he’d been dealing with during the last month or so. We know the gang consists of at least four young men. If Steven moves in dubious circles, he might know who they are, even if he’s not personally involved.’

  She said in a low voice, ‘What he told me isn’t anything to do with that.’

  ‘But it is dishonest?’

  She did not reply. Webb sighed and manoeuvred himself to his feet. ‘Very well, we can’t force you to cooperate. I just thought that with your father—’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ she broke in, her eyes filling with tears.

  Webb stood looking at her for a moment. Then he said heavily, ‘No, it wasn’t. I’m sorry.’ And, nodding to Jackson to follow him, he walked out of the house.

  ‘What do you make of that then, Guv?’ Jackson asked as they reached the car.

  ‘I doubt if we’ll get much more out of her. Misguided loyalty — or a touch of the Bennett stubbornness. Either way, it means stalemate. So, Ken, before we knock off for the day we’ll pop round to Dick Lane. Young Clark should be home by now and we might be able to twist his arm. Metaphorically speaking,’ he added with a tired grin, as Jackson started the car.

  As they turned into Dick Lane, Webb instructed, ‘Park well before the flat, Ken. Even though the car’s unmarked, we don’t want to arouse suspicion or he might simply not open the door.’

  They drove past the comprehensive school, closed and deserted for the night, and the newsagent’s shop where the break-in had occurred.

  ‘Bit close to home, if he was involved in that,’ Jackson commented, with a sidelong glance at the drawn blinds.

  Webb grunted. ‘This’ll do. We’ll walk the rest of the way.’

  The approach to number fifty-nine was less than inviting. The gate had been removed some time in the past — possibly for munitions during the war — and a weed-clogged path led to a drab door from which most of the paint had peeled. Beside it was a row of three bells but, Webb was glad to note, no sign of an intercom, which would have forced them to reveal their identity. He pressed the one marked Clark.

  When, minutes later, Steven Clark himself opened the door, his reaction was considerably more dramatic than they’d anticipated. After an initial gasp, he tried to slam the door on them, forestalled by Jackson with a well-placed shoe.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Clark,’ Webb said pleasantly. ‘Time for another chat.’ He was interested to see the colour drain out of the young man’s face.

  Clark swallowed convulsively. ‘It’s not convenient,’ he stammered. ‘Tomorrow, I’ll be glad—’

  ‘Shall we go up?’ Webb continued, as though he hadn’t spoken, and moved firmly inside.

  Again Clark took them by surprise. He turned and ran to the foot of the stairs, shouting, ‘Tony — look out, it’s the cops!’

  Swiftly, Jackson pushed him aside and ran up the linoleumed steps to the first floor. Webb, mindful of the temptation of the open door, took the precaution of keeping hold of Clark’s sleeve as they followed in his wake.

  To the right of the stairhead was an open door from which, presumably, Clark had emerged to answer the bell. In the middle of the room thus open to their gaze, another young man stood frozen in panic, his white face turned towards them, his eyes staring. That he had not had time to heed his friend’s warning was obvious; the floor was littered with cardboard boxes similar to those Clark had been unpacking when they’d visited him at the supermarket. One, torn open, appeared to be full of cigarette packets. At a rough calculation, there must be several hundred pounds’ worth of goods in the room.

  ‘Setting up in opposition, are we?’ Webb inquired, then, since no reply was forthcoming, ‘Can you offer any explanation for the presence of these goods in your flat?’

  Silence.

  He fixed his eyes on the second man. ‘Name and address?’ It took two attempts before his voice emerged: ‘Tony Cooch, one hundred and eleven, Station Road.’

  ‘Very well, I’m arresting you both on suspicion of handling stolen goods. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you don’t mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Webb turned away and spoke into his mobile phone, arranging for someone to come and collect the goods. Then, having shepherded the young men downstairs, along the pavement and into the car, they drove back to Carrington Street.

  This, doubtless, was the scam Jane had stumbled on. Whether or not it had anything to do with the shop raids remained to be seen.

  *

  Dean slouched in front of the television, a plate balanced on his knee and a can of beer within reach. Since Sharon had dumped him, this was invariably how he spent his evenings.

  His mother was at bingo again, and though he’d never admit it, he no longer felt comfortable alone in the house. Dark and secretive, it lay in wait beyond the lighted room, full of unexplained creaks and movements. Which was why the volume on the set was turned up, even though it was a programme that held no interest for him. Uselessly, he wished he’d brought back a video.

  He’d had the dream again last night, and his palms grew wet as, despite his efforts to block it, it surged back into his mind. He’d been hiding in the broom cupboard, heart thundering, while the woman’s footsteps ran up the stairs above him and then back down again. And had jumped violently at her sudden call, close at hand: ‘Malcolm! Are you there?’

  Up to that point, though in all conscience frightening enough, it was no more than what had actually happened; but then the dream became surreally macabre. The handle of the broom cupboard slowly turned, the door opened, and the copper stood there, swaying, blood pouring from his cracked head. And as Dean stared at him
in horror, he stretched out a hand as though to touch him. Frantically he had slammed the door, trapping the hand, which was left waggling inside the cupboard with him, the ring glowing on one finger...

  Dean jumped up, his plate falling unnoticed to the floor as he ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. Then, as his breathing steadied, he felt in his pocket for the ring and drew it out, its oddly speckled stone smooth, its goldness warm from his body. Perhaps there was a curse on it, he thought, like stealing from a Pharaoh’s tomb; he’d taken it on impulse, as a trophy, but in the succeeding days it had turned into a fetish. As long as he had the ring with him, no harm could befall him. He knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn’t shake himself of the idea.

  The upturned plate caught his eye, and the food scattered on the carpet. Stuffing the ring back into his pocket, he clumsily knelt to clear it up.

  Another thing, he thought uneasily, putting the plate on the table: he didn’t want to do that hit tomorrow. His instinct was to lie low until some of the panic about the cop’s death had died down, but of course he couldn’t tell the others that. He had protested it was too soon — only a week since the last raid — and Gary and Wayne had backed him up. The trouble was, Kev needed the buzz. He insisted the fuzz were too busy chasing their tails looking for the cop-killer to waste time on them.

  The cop-killer — but that was him! Dean felt a thrill of pride, tempered with fear. One day, perhaps, when the heat had died down, he’d tell them. In the meantime, tomorrow loomed ever nearer. They’d decided on Dring’s in King Street, mid-afternoon, when it was quiet. Kev was sounding out Tony and Steve for some tips; working at Savemore, they’d know the form.

  So Kev would get his fix and he, too, would experience that potent draught of fear and excitement. Though nothing in the world, he told himself, could compare with the triumph he’d felt as he’d cracked down on that lousy copper and battered the rotten life out of him. Justice had been done. He just wished he didn’t keep dreaming about it.

  He picked up the beer can and held it up to his reflection in the mirror. ‘Tomorrow!’ he toasted aloud, and, tipping back his head, poured its contents down his throat.

  *

  ‘So by the time we got that lot sorted, it was after eight before I got back. I’ve only just finished my meal.’

  Hannah said, ‘Do you think they’ve anything to do with the shop raids?’

  ‘At this stage, it’s anybody’s guess. You may rest assured they’ll be thoroughly questioned.’

  ‘And Malcolm’s daughter was involved with one of them?’

  ‘Yep. His instincts were right — he told me he didn’t like Jane’s young man. I’ll have to question her again, of course; there could be a charge of withholding information, but I have the feeling that as soon as she discovered what he was up to, she upped and left him. Anyway, enough of all that; can I freshen your drink?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Hannah leaned back in the chair, looking round the pleasant, masculine room. It was a second home to her, with its oak furniture, deep, comfortable chairs and the cinnamon-coloured walls on which David’s favourite paintings hung.

  She watched him as he poured the drinks. This case was taking a lot out of him, and they were only a few days into it. She was worried about him, which was why she’d come upstairs a few minutes ago, though she’d brought a book on art with her as an excuse.

  ‘I happened to see it in the library, and thought it might interest you,’ she’d told him, and he had nodded absently and thanked her, laying it down on a table.

  ‘So,’ she said now, taking the glass he held out, ‘how’s the case going?’

  Before he could reply, the front-door bell pealed through the flat. Webb raised his eyebrows, laid down his drink and went to answer it. Through the open living-room door, Hannah heard a woman’s voice say, ‘Hello, Dave. Surprise, surprise!’

  She tensed, straining to hear his reply, and the single word — ‘Susan!’ — confirmed her worst fears. David’s ex-wife, that shadowy figure whose going, nine long years ago, had hurt him so deeply, and whose sudden reappearance, more recently, had dealt their own relationship an almost fatal blow.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to ask me in?’ she was saying, an edge creeping into her voice.

  ‘Yes — yes, of course.’

  Hannah rose slowly to her feet and was facing the door when Susan entered, closely followed by David, mouthing his apologies behind her back.

  She stopped on the threshold. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  ‘Not at all,’ David said evenly. ‘Let me introduce you. This is Hannah James, who lives on the floor below. Hannah, Susan — Farrow. My ex-wife.’

  The two women nodded warily at each other.

  ‘Miss James kindly brought me an art book to look at, and stayed for a drink,’ David added lamely.

  Which, Hannah thought, neatly demoted her to an importunate neighbour. Was that what he wanted Susan to believe? If so, he was to be disappointed. She said abruptly, ‘Are you the schoolteacher?’

  Hannah raised an eyebrow. ‘I do teach, yes.’

  Having established her identity, Susan turned back to David, still standing uncertainly at her side.

  ‘I just couldn’t believe it — about Malcolm.’

  ‘I know; it’s grim.’

  ‘I only realized you were in charge when I saw you on TV. How can you do it, when you were such friends?’

  He said woodenly, ‘I can’t pick and choose my cases. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please — the usual. Then I want to hear all about it.’ She seated herself in David’s chair and sat back, crossing her legs.

  Hannah put her glass on the table. ‘I must be going, so if you’ll excuse me—’

  David said quickly, ‘Sit down, Hannah; you haven’t finished your drink.’

  ‘Another time,’ she answered brightly. ‘I hope you enjoy the book.’ She turned briefly to the seated woman. ‘Nice to have met you, Mrs Farrow.’ And before either of them could speak, she walked quickly out of the room.

  Her feelings as she ran back down the stairs were chaotic, and, letting herself into her flat, she tried to sort them out. Susan was back. Was she still a threat? She was an attractive woman, Hannah conceded, tall and boyishly slim, her flaxen hair in a soft bob, her eyes blue. But it was her mouth that held the attention; her teeth, though even and well-shaped, were positioned too far forward, with the result that when her lips closed over them, they looked full and disturbingly sensual.

  This had been Hannah’s first chance of a proper look at her; the only other time she’d seen Susan was that brief, heart-stopping moment when she and David had come down the stairs from his flat early one morning, just as, in her dressing-gown, Hannah was opening her own door to take in the milk.

  She walked restlessly into the lamplit sitting-room. The clock on the mantelpiece showed nine-thirty; an odd hour to call on one’s ex-husband. Would she see them coming down the stairs tomorrow morning?

  Pushing the thought from her mind, Hannah sat on the sofa, reached for a glossy magazine and mechanically started turning its pages. At ten o’clock the doorbell rang and she went to answer it.

  David came swiftly in, pushed the door shut with his foot, and took her in his arms, holding her tightly.

  ‘Hey!’ she exclaimed with a breathless little laugh. ‘What’s all this about?’

  He said against her hair, ‘I needed to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To reassure myself that you’re still here, that we’re still us. Seeing Susan sitting there brought back all the trauma of those years we were together and frankly, what with Malcolm’s death and everything, I’m not up to it.’

  ‘Has she gone?’

  ‘Yes, and she won’t be back, love. I made a fool of myself once, and look how long it took me to get you back again! I’m not likely to make the same mistake twice.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it!’ she said with mock severity, a deep well of thank
fulness inside her. ‘What did she mean,’ she added as they walked back to the sitting-room, his arm still round her, ‘was I “the schoolteacher”?’

  ‘I must have mentioned you, last time. Look, love, she only came to find out about Malcolm. As you know, we were all good friends, years ago.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Hannah said.

  ‘So if it’s all the same to you, how about finishing that interrupted drink?’

  And, dismissing her doubts, Hannah smilingly complied.

  10

  Sally lowered the baby into his bouncing chair and glanced at her husband.

  ‘Aren’t you going to be late? It’s after eight-thirty.’

  He didn’t look up from the paper. ‘I’ve got a man coming to see the Merc at nine. Only time he could manage it. Still, I’ve an appointment with a client later, so it fits in quite well.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d actually advertised it.’

  ‘I haven’t, it’s the friend of a friend.’

  Sally sat down and reached for the toast. Neil’s financial problems had not been mentioned for the last two weeks; her father’s death had put them completely out of her mind and Neil himself had volunteered nothing. Even now, she was reluctant to bring the subject up, knowing the friction that would result.

  She said tentatively, ‘Is — everything working out?’

  He shrugged, still behind the paper. ‘I’m seeing the bank manager this afternoon. I’ll tell you after that.’

  She buttered the toast, letting the matter drop. It occurred to her that if she received anything from her father’s estate, Neil would assume a share in it. But she’d no intention of seeing her legacy disappear as money tended to do when he got his hands on it. It might be wise to speak to someone — an accountant — and see if she could tie it up in some way, perhaps as a trust fund for Jamie. Still, no point in worrying about that yet; for all she knew, Dad might have left everything to Una.

  Una. Broodingly, Sally thought about her stepmother. Barbara’d phoned last night to say the police had moved out of the house and Una would be going back today. It occurred to Sally that neither she nor Tim had seen their stepmother since the murder, and Jane only by accident, when she called at Barbara’s. Which, she thought guiltily, was unforgivable. She would make a point of going round this evening, though the prospect filled her with dread. Being in the familiar house without Dad would be bad enough, let alone the strain of offering condolences to Una, with no idea how they’d be received.