A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

  He had agreed for Jim Sykes, a reporter from the Express, to watch every stage of the operation. He and Sykes went back a long way – a friendship of sorts that had started when Kenward was a constable and Sykes a cub reporter on the local paper. Now both men were older, substantially heavier and a great deal more cynical about human nature. Over the years they had come to a mutual, unspoken understanding that benefited both of them: Kenward gave the reporter tip-offs and snippets of information, while Sykes would often highlight the policeman’s success at solving particularly tricky cases and, in so doing, would portray him in an especially attractive light.

  ‘What do you hope you might find today, Bill?’ asked Sykes, his notebook at the ready.

  ‘The draining is merely a normal procedure under these circumstances. We are looking for anything that might help us locate Mrs Christie. Items of clothing, personal possessions, shoes and suchlike.’

  ‘Come off it, Bill. That’s not what you said earlier.’

  Kenward looked around him and lowered his voice. ‘I know, I know. Look – and this is off the record, of course – if I’m right about this I expect something rather nasty to be caught in those nets.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think Mrs Christie lies at the bottom of this water. How she ended up there we will have to wait and see. But the body, when we find it, should give us some clues.’

  ‘Do you think she’s dead?’

  ‘Of course, there is no other explanation.’

  ‘And what about Superintendent Goddard’s theory? The Superintendent from the Berkshire Police believes that she is merely playing an elaborate game of cat and mouse with her husband.’

  ‘What wife in her right mind would do that?’

  ‘That’s just it, she might not be – in her right mind, I mean.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But there’s something not right about the Colonel’s story. Very fishy, if you ask me.’

  ‘He might be a cad. What do you think he did?’

  Kenward looked around him again. ‘I know I can’t prove it yet, but I think the only thing that makes sense is that the Colonel and his wife had some kind of row. We know that he was seeing some girl on the side. Perhaps she found out, threatened to cause a scene, there was a struggle, a fight. Maybe Mrs Christie fell or she was pushed. Either way, I’m convinced that she is no longer alive. You know just as well as I do what people are capable of. Especially husbands who find themselves in hot water. At the very least, discounting the Colonel, perhaps she wandered away from the car in a daze and slipped. Anyway, all this is strictly off the record, right?’

  Sykes was silent.

  ‘Right, Jim?’

  ‘Very well. But you promise to give me the story first. An exclusive? Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed. Look, the men are ready.’

  Kenward and Sykes walked towards the sluice gate. He acknowledged the officials from the Surrey Water Board and a couple of other reporters he was on nodding terms with. But there was one figure who hovered at the edge of the group, a pretty young girl in a smart suit and coat. As he met her gaze she stepped forward and introduced herself as Miss Crowe. It was the same girl who had tried to prise information from him on the telephone.

  ‘Superintendent, I wondered if you could tell me what you are doing here.’

  ‘What does it look like I’m doing, fishing?’

  The comment drew laughs from the crowd of men. But Sykes was looking like he wanted to push the young girl into the pond.

  ‘I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?’ said Sykes.

  ‘Yes, sort of,’ said the girl.

  ‘Who are you working for?’

  ‘Well, I suppose one could say that I’m working for myself.’

  ‘I see. So you’re the one that is doing a spot of fishing.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ she said.

  ‘Fishing for information. Without having a commission or a job.’

  The girl blushed slightly, but Kenward could tell that she had what he liked to call spark. Even though she spoke like a proper little miss, her eyes were full of fire.

  ‘Look, if you want to stay, you can,’ said Kenward. ‘Just make sure you keep out of the way. And make sure you don’t fall in.’

  Again a comment of his prompted laughter all round.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said the girl. ‘But you really don’t think you’ll find her here, do you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Kenward.

  ‘Well, it seems quite obvious, I would have thought. If Mrs Christie had wanted to do herself in, she would not have chosen to drown.’

  ‘And how do you know that, may I ask?’

  ‘Oh, just by reading her novels. No, if Mrs Christie had wanted to kill herself she would surely have chosen a less dramatic way.’

  ‘So let me see if I have got this right. You are making your assumption purely on what you’ve read in her books?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I am. You see, Mrs Christie is an expert in poisons and poisonous substances. She used to work in the dispensary as a VAD during the war.’

  ‘Did she now?’ said Kenward in a patronising tone. He wished he had sent this girl away when he had first seen her.

  ‘Yes,’ said Una, immune to the sarcasm. ‘If you read her novels you will see that she has, oh I don’t know, a kind of affinity with poison. I’m sure if she did want to kill herself – which I very much doubt, by the way – then she would have chosen a substance that would simply have allowed her to slip away to sleep with very little pain or fuss.’

  ‘Well, thank you, miss, for that insight. Yet I’m afraid, if you don’t mind me saying, it sounds as though you would be more suited to book reviewing than the nitty-gritty of crime reporting.’ He turned away from her. ‘Now, if we can get back to the job in hand. Grimes? Are you ready?’

  Kenward signalled for the gates to be opened and, almost immediately, a great groan was emitted from deep within the pond. The water gushed forth in a surge so strong it had the power to crush a man. Spray clouded the surrounding area and the occasional globule of water landed on the faces of the group that stood by the sluice. When he spotted a dark form flow through the gates, Kenward strained his head to try to see beneath the surface of froth and foam, but the constant churning of the water made it impossible for him to identify the object. It was only when the water had reduced to a trickle, and the bottom of the pond had been exposed, that he saw a dark brown shoe. Kenward nodded for a constable, dressed in fishing waders, to retrieve the shoe from the net.

  ‘What size is it?’ shouted Kenward.

  ‘A ten. Looks like a man’s,’ responded the young constable.

  ‘Damn it,’ he said, turning away. ‘And there’s nothing else in the net? Any other items of interest?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said the young man, his fingers working through the net.

  ‘Well, let’s make sure there is nothing on the bottom of the pond. Something could have been weighted down and could be sitting in the mud.’

  He turned round, unwilling to let the rest of the group see the anger and frustration in his face. How could there be no trace of her? He did not understand. It just didn’t make sense. He smelt a trace of sweetness in the air, a welcome relief from the stench of methane that emanated from the depths of the pond. He looked up. It was that damn woman reporter again.

  ‘What does this mean?’ asked Una.

  ‘Mean?’

  ‘Yes, I wondered if you had a response. Or what your next course of action might be.’

  ‘It’s a routine search. This one did not throw up anything of particular interest. But the elimination is part of the process. If you think this is a quick or instant operation, then, Miss Crowe, you really do have a great deal to learn.’

  ‘And your next step?’

  ‘To carry on looking. I have every confidence that if we continue with the search of the area then we will unearth some clue to the whereabouts of Mrs Christie. It’s logical.’
>
  ‘And what if you don’t?’

  Kenward blinked in disbelief. ‘That is not a possibility I can contemplate,’ he said.

  ‘But what’s your theory?’

  ‘My theory?’ He looked over towards Sykes who was glaring at him with barely suppressed anger. He would have to mind his own counsel if only to keep Sykes on board. After all, he had promised to give him the exclusive when the body was found. ‘I don’t have one. I don’t work by theories, I work by evidence.’

  ‘But if you’ll forgive me, Superintendent, the evidence suggests that Mrs Christie is still very much alive.’

  ‘Says who? I know there are those who believe that, but that’s just pie in the sky.’

  ‘And the sightings? What of them? The ones reported in The Times this morning?’ Una rustled her newspaper and started to read from page 18. ‘ “A man has come forward who says that about an hour before dawn on Saturday morning he was approached by a woman at Newlands Corner, who asked him to start her car. The car had evidently been out in the frost all night, and the woman’s hair – she was hatless – was covered with hoar-frost. She appeared to be strange in her manner. With considerable difficulty the man started the engine of the car, and the woman drove off in the direction of Chandon. It was about two hours later that the car was discovered abandoned near the spot from which she was seen to drive away.” ’

  ‘Have you finished?” asked Kenward in an ironic tone.

  ‘No, not quite,’ replied Una. ‘There’s something else from the newspaper in the same story. Listen. ‘ “Early on Saturday morning a porter, who was the only railwayman on duty at Milford Station, a few miles south of Godalming, was approached by a woman, who enquired about the trains going in the direction of Portsmouth. He was lighting the station lamps at the time, and did not pay much attention to the woman’s appearance, but he noticed that there was frost on her hat and that she seemed somewhat strange in her manner. He went on with his work, after replying to her question, and does not know in which direction she went.” ’

  ‘And that’s quite all?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t you agree—’

  ‘The only thing I agree with is that a couple of people have come forward and offered their opinion. No doubt you know about the reward offered by the Daily News?’

  Una nodded.

  ‘Well, can I put it to you that there may be a connection between the reward of £100 and the fact that certain people have passed on their so-called evidence? It happens every time a rag offers a reward. The amount of extra work we are bogged down with you simply would not believe. I imagine you are quite new to this kind of work, Miss Crowe, but please give me the benefit of the doubt. I’ve been in the police force for nearly thirty years now so I know the tricks – and the treachery – of the press.’

  ‘Come off it, Bill, we’re not as bad as that,’ said Sykes.

  Kenward’s colour darkened. There was no disguising his anger now.

  ‘Why is the Daily News offering £100 to the person or persons that would provide them with the “first information leading to the whereabouts, if alive, of Mrs Christie”,’ said Kenward. ‘Why only alive? What happens if the poor woman is dead – did they ever think of that?’

  There was silence. ‘No, they didn’t,’ he continued. ‘The stupid, ignorant swines. Sorry, Miss Crowe, but you see how it gets me going.’ He raised a hand to his temples. He could feel that pain in his head coming on again. He took a deep breath. ‘Now, if you will forgive me I have to continue the search of the area. Goodbye.’

  Kenward walked off in the direction of the empty pond, cursing under his breath. If it wasn’t for him and men like him the jackals would have nothing to report on. He would have to remember that. He couldn’t allow his vision to be contaminated by their constant carping and questioning. He had half a mind to ban the lot of them from the operation, but he knew that, at some point, he would need their help.

  As he approached the pond he felt even more depressed in spirits. The draining had exposed not a smooth muddy surface as he had hoped, but a hollow almost completely full of thick green weed. It would, he knew, be difficult to search the whole area thoroughly, but they would have to try.

  ‘It’s full of weeds, sir,’ called another of the constables from the pond. ‘Can hardly make out a thing.’

  ‘I can see that, Jones,’ said Kenward. ‘Start from the edge nearest me and you and Lyons can work towards the sluice gates.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing. Now please carry on with your instructions. If you find anything suspicious or of interest, let me know.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  Half of him wished he could pull on the set of waders that he still kept in the back of the police station and get down into the pond with his men. He was sure that, given the opportunity to search the mud and the weed, he would unearth something that might offer a clue. But he knew he was past engaging in that kind of physical activity now. After all, it took all his energy to walk up a flight of stairs. Naomi had been constantly at him to go and see the doctor. One day he supposed he would, but he was afraid of what the doctor might tell him. He knew it was unlikely to be good news.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Una left Albury Mill Pond in a state of fury. What an annoying little man! How dare he try to humiliate her in front of those other reporters. She was new to this game, that was fair, but what she did not want to tell him was that she knew a lot more than she was letting on. If she had so wished she could have given Kenward a vital piece of information that might have helped his inquiry. Had he been a little more polite perhaps she might have told him some of the contents of the letter she had picked up at Styles. But after the way he had treated her, well, now that was quite out of the question.

  What a blockhead that man was. Why did he insist on thinking that Mrs Christie was dead when all the evidence pointed to the contrary? And he really did not look in the best of health. Perhaps it would be better if another man led the investigation.

  When she reached the car that she had borrowed from her brother, Eric – she had told her family she was going to visit a friend in the country and would be away for a couple of days – she took out the folder of information that she had compiled on the case. At the top of the stash of documents was the letter from Madge to her sister, Agatha, which gave her not only the name of the woman Colonel Christie had been having an affair with – Miss Nancy Neele – but also the fact that she came from Rickmansworth. Una’s next task was to try to see if she could find her. So far the woman’s name had been kept out of the papers, but she would not be surprised if it did not appear in the next few days. Obviously, she could not expect a friendly greeting if she turned up at Miss Neele’s door asking for an interview. She would have to think of some other excuse to get into the house. But what?

  Una took out the road map from the glove compartment and studied how best to get from Newlands Corner to Rickmansworth. She assumed that when she arrived at the town in Hertfordshire she would be able to find a public library. They carried telephone directories and gazetteers and suchlike and it shouldn’t be hard to find Miss Neele’s address. By then she should have worked out what to say to make sure she got her foot through the door. She started the engine and as she drove northwards through Surrey and Berkshire she felt full of excitement and enthusiasm for what lay ahead. If only her father could see her now: independent, happy and full of energy. Surely if he were alive he would have to give his blessing to her new career. Of course, she knew that in the circles in which she mixed the men who worked for the press, unless one were the editor of The Times (‘and even then’ her father would say), were considered rather common. Stuffed shirts, the lot of them.

  If she were in charge – say, if she were ever to go into Parliament like Mrs Astor – then she would try to break down these kinds of silly divisions. Oh, she knew she could be an awful snob at times, but these old-fashioned attitudes really had to change. There were some
other things that she would like to change too, but she knew people were rather stuck in their ways. The nasty comments she had heard about men such as Davison, and indeed Mrs Astor’s own son, Bobbie. What right did anyone have to nose around in another person’s bedroom? She laughed when she considered that she had done exactly that less than twenty-four hours previously. What a terrible hypocrite she was!

  She arrived in Rickmansworth in high spirits and parked the car on Church Street, just outside the Feathers public house. She walked up and down the pretty provincial street, found the police station and the fire station, but there did not seem to be a library. Then, next to a little café, she spotted a dress shop, quite a smart one too. Perhaps she could just chance her luck. Una bent down a little and, out of sight of the dress-shop window, pulled on the hem of her pleated black crepella skirt. Nothing happened. Opening her handbag she took out a metal nail file and used it to cut into the fabric. With a hard pull the silk lining began to tear. She adored the skirt, but nevertheless the ripping sound was most terrifically satisfying. When she was convinced she had completed the little act of destruction she opened the door to the sound of a tinkling bell and stepped inside.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the red-faced, rather comfortably shaped lady behind the wooden counter.

  Una could feel the woman’s eyes on her as she assessed the quality, and expense, of her attire. Her style was understated – it did not scream wealth – but anyone with any education or knowledge of fashion would immediately realise that, while some of her clothes were far from new, they had cost a good deal of money.

  ‘How can I help?’ she added.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Una, smiling. ‘I do hope you can help me. I seem to have ripped the hem of my skirt. Can you see?’