David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door

by Anthea Fraser

  “Forgive me, sir, but I have to ask: was it a happy marriage?”

  Dexter looked up angrily. “What the hell has that to do with anything?”

  “Well, you certainly weren’t in a hurry to get home on Monday. I wondered if perhaps you’d had a disagreement?”

  Silence. Webb said quietly, “Or maybe you were in the habit of quarrelling?”

  The man’s eyes filled with tears and he brushed them angrily away. “Only since we moved to bloody Broadshire.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because Carol didn’t settle as I’d hoped and expected. We paid a large sum for the house, and had it converted exactly to our taste. Her taste,” he corrected himself. “But she didn’t make any friends and she complained of being lonely.”

  According to Sage’s report, the woman had also been afraid. “You told my colleague she was frightened. What of, exactly?”

  “The village boys, mainly. They’re a scruffy bunch, given to lounging around on corners and making comments as you pass. It can be quite unnerving.” His mouth twisted. “We called them the Beckworth Bruisers.”

  “Did they actually threaten her in any way?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. She was just being neurotic.” He broke off. “At least, that’s what I thought. My God, you mean one of them might have killed her?”

  “At this stage, sir, anyone might.” He paused. “This gentleman who gave her a lift; do you know his name?”

  “Carey. His wife’s the booking manager, Carol said.”

  “You haven’t met him yourself?”

  “No.”

  “And as far as you’re aware, he’s the only person in the village with whom she had any contact?”

  “Apart from the vicar and the tradesmen, yes.”

  “How long are you staying here, Mr. Dexter?”

  “A couple of days, but I won’t be returning to Beckworth. I’m going back to London and the children will stay with Rachel while I decide what to do.” He paused and added sullenly, “If you have no objection?”

  “Not as long as we know where to contact you,” Webb said smoothly.

  “I’ll be staying with a Mr. and Mrs. Kingdom.” Their address and phone number were duly noted by Jackson.

  “And if you could give us the name of the place where you ate on Monday?”

  Dexter flushed a dull red. “The Buttery, in Swindon.”

  “Thank you. Now, will you be leaving a key with anyone? We shall want to examine your wife’s belongings; there might possibly be a lead there.”

  Dexter seemed about to protest, then shrugged and, taking his key-ring from his pocket, detached a key and handed it over. “I’ve a spare one at the office.”

  “Thank you very much, sir.” Webb finished his tea and signalled to Jackson, who closed his notebook. “And thanks for the tea, Mrs. Davis. I’m sorry to have been the bearer of more bad news.”

  “A pretty rum story, Guv,” Jackson commented when they were back in the car. “What do you reckon he was up to?”

  “I don’t know, Ken, but I intend to find out. First thing tomorrow, ring that Buttery place. They’d have been busy on Easter Monday and I’ll be surprised if they let anyone spin a meal out for three hours. In the meantime, since we’ve got the key on us we’ll go and take a look at the house.”

  ***

  It was barely five days since Webb had driven up the hill, but this time he was in no mood to admire the scenery. Ironic that after visiting the village for the first time in years, it should immediately feature in a murder case.

  “I detailed Sage and Pierce to do the preliminaries,” he said. “They’ve already met several of the people up there, which could be useful.”

  “Same lot as were involved in the burglaries?” Jackson inquired.

  “Not the dead woman, but neighbours on both sides.” “You reckon there’s a connection?”

  “You tell me, Ken.” They had emerged from the wood now and were entering the village. It didn’t seem as peaceful as it had on Saturday, possibly due to the presence of blue-uniformed figures on doorsteps. House-to-house inquiries were under way.

  “Where are we looking for, Guv?”

  “Coppins Farmhouse. It should be along here on the right. Yes, here we are.”

  The five-barred gate, relic of a previous existence, was firmly closed. Jackson unlatched it and the two men walked through into the gravelled driveway. The old house, its gable-end facing them, waited impassively. To their right a patio lay spread in the sun, its tubs of flowers and shrubs bright splashes of colour. Apart from the gap of the gateway, the village was completely obscured by the high fence that fronted the property. If these new villagers prized their privacy so highly, they shouldn’t be surprised if no one spoke to them.

  He took Dexter’s key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock. The door, highly polished for the most part, had an area of dull wood in the centre. Peering more closely, Webb could just make out a faint circle, which someone had apparently attempted to remove. Kids! he thought resignedly, pushing the door open.

  Already the house smelt stuffy and unused, but the carpets were spotless and the wood of an old chest glowed luminously from the shadows. As Webb moved from one room to another, Jackson risked a quick glance at his watch. After five already. He’d hoped to be home early this evening; they’d had a disturbed night, with young Paul vomiting and complaining of stomach ache, and as he left home that morning, Millie had been phoning the doctor.

  “Ken?”

  He hurried into the long, low-ceilinged sitting-room. “Yes, Guv?”

  “Have a quick look through this desk, will you. Cheque stubs, bank statements, address books—the usual thing. I’ll go through the dressing-table drawers. More complicated with a woman; you never know where they’ll hide things.”

  The staircase was wide and shallow, carpeted in old-rose Wilton. Webb paused at the top, surveying the corridor which stretched in front of him with innocently open doors. When Mrs. Dexter had left the house, he reflected, she hadn’t realized it would be for the last time. It was possible, therefore, that she might have left something lying around which would otherwise have been hidden.

  Webb walked into the main bedroom with its bathroom en suite. Here the furniture was modern and, in his opinion, inappropriate to the age of the house. Cream and gold wardrobes lined the walls, and a long bemirrored dressing-table stood under one window. He walked across, sat down on the stool and opened one drawer after another. They revealed nothing out of the ordinary; a sachet of lace handkerchiefs, several pairs of tights, some underwear in soft pastel shades. The centre drawer was much as he remembered his wife’s: a jumble of lipsticks, some without tops, eye-shadows and blushers, and an open box of face-powder whose contents coated everything with a layer of pink dust.

  Webb sighed, pushing the drawer shut. It was at times like this that “the deceased” became a real woman, one who had stood before this mirror appraising her appearance, had slept in that bed and stood, perhaps, at this window, gazing out on an alien landscape. Carol Dexter had been afraid, and with reason; though whether her fear had been directed against the right person remained to be seen. But as far as he could tell there were no secret letters hidden away up here. Not even a diary in the bedside table, though such an accessible place would not in any case have held anything private.

  He stood in the centre of the room taking a last look round, at the ruched blinds at the window—another anachronism—and the lemon silk negligee on the back of the door. A feminine room, and one which he could understand Stewart Dexter fleeing from once its other occupant had gone.

  Returning downstairs, Webb went into the kitchen and, noticing the humming of the fridge, opened its door. A covered casserole stood on one shelf, a rich, creamy mousse on another. The ill-fated dinner-party. These preparations must have been the last tasks Carol Dexter performed. “Ken!”

  “Yes, Guv?” Jackson materialized beside him. “Nothing much in the desk, an
d what there is seems to be Mr. Dexter’s.”

  Webb nodded absently. “We’ll leave it to the SOCOs then. I’m wondering about this fridge. It shouldn’t be left on if no one’s here.”

  Jackson in his turn looked inside. “Shall I put whatever will fit into the freezer? That’s what Millie does when we go on holiday.”

  The sound of the doorbell reached them and, leaving Jackson to attend to the fridge, Webb went to answer it. Harry Sage stood outside.

  “I saw the car,” he said, “and wondered if you needed any help.”

  “I don’t think so, thanks. We’ve just about finished here, then we’ll wander up the road and have a look round. Any more developments?”

  “They’ve found where the attack took place. Traces of blood on one of those low, metal urns beside the path.”

  “Is it near the pond?”

  “Yes, only a few yards away.”

  “So he had a convenient dumping place close by.” He paused. “You met the murdered woman, didn’t you? What was she like?”

  “Bit of all right, actually. Nice figure, pretty, well dressed.”

  “I meant her manner,” Webb said caustically.

  Sage flushed. “Oh. Well, she was pretty jittery. Bundle of nerves, in fact. Her husband was a bit short with her.”

  “There was an atmosphere between them?”

  Sage frowned, thinking back. “Well, nothing exceptional. He corrected her a couple of times and she snapped back—that kind of thing.” He grinned. “Just normal married behaviour.”

  “Did she seem frightened of anything in particular?” “Being burgled.”

  “But not of her husband?”

  Sage shot him a sharp look. “I wouldn’t have said so. Hasn’t he got an alibi?”

  “We’ve not checked it yet. So there were no undercurrents that struck you, seeing them together?”

  “To be honest, Guv, I wasn’t looking for any. All that interested me was whether they’d heard anything when the house next door was done.”

  “Yep. OK. Anything fresh from the neighbours today?”

  “Nothing relevant, I’m afraid.”

  “I suppose it was too much to hope for. Right, Harry, you can knock off now. See you tomorrow. Sally with you?” he added, as Sage turned away.

  “We split up to cover more ground, but she’ll be back at the car by now.”

  Webb nodded and went back into the house.

  ***

  “We’ve been let off school,” Sage reported to Sally, who’d been leaning wearily against the bonnet and straightened as he approached.

  “Good; I could do with a quiet evening.”

  “How about a drink first, to help you unwind?”

  “I don’t think so, thanks, Skip. I’d rather get home.”

  “Nonsense, do you the world of good. Anyway,” he added with a sly sideways glance as he turned the ignition key, “it’s not as though there’s anyone waiting for you, is there? I heard on the grapevine you’d split with your feller.”

  Oh God! Sally thought in a panic; he’s not going to start on about Pete, is he? Because, tired as she was, she could easily break down, and then where would she be?

  The road was entering the forest, a dark green tunnel where the light filtered patchily through the interwoven branches. Sally, not trusting herself to speak, gripped the edges of her seat tightly.

  “Still touchy, are we? Never mind, doll, plenty more fish in the sea, and we’re all the same in the dark!”

  Sally’s teeth fastened in her lip. Please God, don’t let him turn off the road. If he tried anything on she’d hit him, which would put her career up the spout. He was slowing down! She tensed, then with a wave of thankfulness heard the swish of a car behind them. Impossible to pass on this road, and, since it might well be some of their colleagues following them, turning off was out of the question. The car regained speed and they reached the blessed openness of the main road.

  “The offer of a drink still stands,” Sage said.

  “Not this evening, thanks. Really.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Though weak with relief, Sally was aware that the respite was temporary; he was sure to try again. The sooner Fred Perry returned from sick leave, she thought fervently, the better.

  ***

  It was without his usual sense of well-being that Ken Jackson opened his front door that evening. Normally he savoured the moment when he put his key in the lock and Millie and the children came running to greet him; but during the last hour, as he and the Governor had walked round the grounds of the Stately Home and looked in at the incident room, he’d been getting more and more anxious about Paul.

  “Hello!” he called. “I’m home!”

  Millie appeared at the head of the stairs, a finger to her lips. “Hush, love, he’s just dropped off.”

  “Sorry.” Jackson went up the stairs two at a time. “How is he?”

  “No better, I’m afraid. I took him to the surgery this morning. The doctor said it could be a grumbling appendix.”

  “Appendicitis, you mean?” Old, doom-laden episodes of “Doctor Findlay’s Casebook” flashed through his mind.

  “Only grumbling,” Millie reassured him. “Which apparently is not much more than an upset tummy. He might have several attacks without their ever coming to anything.”

  “But can’t the doctor give him something?” Jackson was a man of his time, brought up to believe modern science had a cure for everything.

  “It seems not. He’s to be kept on a liquid diet till he stops being sick, then a very light one for several days. And if the pain gets worse, we’re to contact him again.”

  “That’s big of him.”

  Millie laid her head briefly against his shoulder. “Be fair, love. He’s a good doctor.”

  “I suppose so. Well, since Paul’s asleep, where are the others?”

  “Vickie’s watching TV and the twins are finishing tea. When they got to the biscuit stage I left them for a minute to check up on Paul. We’d better get back, though.”

  The twins, two months off their second birthday and unaware of the crisis in the household, greeted their parents with wide grins. Both high chairs were covered in a generous coating of chocolate.

  “I’m behindhand today,” Millie apologized, getting a cloth to one pair of hands while Jackson tackled the other.

  “Never mind, I’ll bath them. I was afraid I’d be too late.”

  She brushed the hair off her face with the back of her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ken. I never asked how the day had gone.”

  “We went waltzing off to the Cotswolds, if you please. A pleasant drive, but not a lot to show for it.” He lifted his son out of the chair, holding his head aside to avoid the still-sticky fingers. “I’ll tell you about it once we’ve got this lot to bed.” He glanced across at her, catching a rare despondency in her face.

  “Don’t worry, love,” he said rallyingly, holding down his own fears. “He’ll be all right.”

  “Of course he will.”

  And, reassured that Millie’s smile was back in place,

  Jackson set off for the bathroom.

  ***

  Alison, ready for bed, lit the night-light she’d bought that morning and set it in its saucer. Stupid, she knew, to need it at her age, and with her husband sleeping beside her. Last night, however, she’d been plagued by nightmares in which it was she who floated in the lily-pond. And now there was talk of murder. She shuddered. At least tonight when her eyes flashed open, uncertain whether she woke or slept, the gentle glow would provide comfort.

  She switched off the light and stood for a moment looking at the flickering shadows cast on the ceiling, transported by them back to her childhood. Then, returning to the less happy present, she went to open the window. And it was then, glancing casually down, that she saw the car.

  Frowning, Alison pushed up the sash as she had the previous night, leaning out for a better look. But as before, the vehicle was huddled into th
e corner of the wall beneath her and showed only as a dark hump.

  She hesitated. Neil was still dressed and downstairs. Had things been more normal between them, she would have asked him to walk round the corner and have a closer look at it. In the present circumstances, however, it wasn’t worth the hassle of facing him again.

  She pulled the window down to its accustomed six inches and went to bed.

  CHAPTER 7

  On his return home that evening, Webb had called in to see Hannah. Her flat was on the floor below his, looking out over the large gardens which had belonged to the house that originally stood on the site.

  As she opened the door to him, her orange cat Pekoe rubbed itself ingratiatingly around his legs. No longer a kitten, it was still a small animal, neat and compact, with a white front and emerald-green eyes.

  “Cupboard love!” Webb commented.

  “Not at all!” Hannah retorted. “When have you ever fed him? He’s merely welcoming you to his domain.” She glanced at Webb’s face. “You look tired, David. Go and sit down and I’ll get you a drink. Have you eaten?”

  “A drink will be fine, thanks.”

  “I said, have you eaten?”

  “Look, I’m not on the scrounge. I’ve a couple of chops upstairs, but I just wanted to relax with you for a few minutes.”

  “It’s goulash and rice this evening,” Hannah said carelessly, pouring the drinks. “It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  He laughed. “Temptress!”

  “I saw the six o’clock news; they said that woman at Beckworth had been murdered.”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s illogical, but it seems much worse when I know the place and was there so recently. I suppose you’re working on it?”

  “Yes; I’ve been to see her husband today.” Webb took an appreciative sip of his whisky.

  “Did he do it?”

  He smiled wryly. “If he did, he’s not admitting it.”

  “But could he have done?”

  Webb reflected, tilting the golden liquid in his glass. “Yes, I rather think he could. We’ll know more tomorrow, when Jackson checks his timing.”