The Protagonists

by James Barlow

  ‘Is she hurt – bad?’

  ‘It wasn’t a road accident, Mrs Wilson. She was killed.’

  ‘Killed? Then what with?’

  ‘I mean she was murdered.’

  A pause in a tremendous silence, then the tears streaming. ‘Excuse me. I can’t help it.’ MacIndoe said, ‘It doesn’t matter. I only wish –’ Her emotion reached him and he did not even know what to wish. Another silence. Mrs Wilson’s sniffs. The pouring rain outside. The woman said in a foolish, smashed, defeated voice, ‘What would anyone want to kill her for? She was a nice kid.’ I knew it, MacIndoe thought, in something like elation.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘Do you think you could identify Miss Hughes for us? It would help us greatly. I can’t start my inquiries until that’s been done. And it may save her parents a little of their distress.’ They’ll be the third and fourth victims, he thought in depression. The brother Tom will be the fifth. And so it will go on, the one act of destruction spreading suffering to everyone the girl knew. And if I catch him, MacIndoe thought bitterly, they’ll say he wasn’t quite adjusted to his environment. He just needed to kill girls to make him feel good. How hard they all tried to give sin another name!

  ‘She’s not – cut or anything?’

  ‘No,’ said MacIndoe. He added nothing about the way the girl had died.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to come. Where do I go?’

  ‘She’s at Almond Vale,’ said MacIndoe. Mrs Wilson seemed surprised. ‘We’ll bring you back afterwards,’ he concluded.

  In the car Mrs Wilson was almost silent. She was obviously frightened, and MacIndoe forbore from questioning her before she had seen the body. At the entrance to the police station she hesitated. ‘I’ve never seen anyone – killed,’ she said.

  ‘Olwen looks quite – peaceful,’ MacIndoe said.

  ‘All right; but if I feel ill or anything –’

  ‘You’ll be all right.’

  But when she had seen the dead face Mrs Wilson could not speak. She nodded through a stream of tears. MacIndoe guided her into Maddocks’ office and gave her a drink of tea – for shock, as the constable had said earlier.

  Ten minutes later she felt much better. The ordeal being past, she was garrulous. ‘She was a nice kid, Inspector. Don’t you get the idea that because – I mean, it shows she resisted, doesn’t it? Who was it, Inspector? Some madman?’

  ‘I don’t think it was a madman,’ said MacIndoe. ‘It must have been someone she knew.’

  ‘Then it was this man – this married man. She wouldn’t bring him to see us because she was ashamed of him,’ Mrs Wilson said in slight bitterness. ‘Or else she was ashamed of us.’

  ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘She never said anything much,’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘Didn’t like being teased about it. I wouldn’t have known of his existence if Hazel hadn’t told me.’

  ‘Is Hazel a relation?’

  ‘Hazel and Olwen shared a room,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve got a spare room, you see – well, you know. I have to have two in because I haven’t got a man at the back of me. My husband’s been dead twelve years. The bombing. He would go – at his age. I haven’t even got a pension. It’s mean, you know. He’d been there twenty-four years. That’s a long time, Inspector.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ murmured MacIndoe. ‘Can you tell me the name of this man?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’ve never seen him. Hazel will know all about it.’

  ‘How long had Miss Hughes been with you?’

  ‘Three years at least. She came from the sanatorium. She was a nurse there for a long time. Lost her boy friend there …She’s got a friend there still –’

  ‘A boy friend?’

  ‘No. A nurse. Peggy. She used to come a lot, but we haven’t seen her lately. Except the once – about six weeks ago – when I think they quarrelled.’

  ‘Do you know what about?’

  ‘I think it was about this man. Peggy didn’t like Olwen knocking about with a married man.’

  ‘Can you tell me any more about her affair with the married man? When did it begin?’

  ‘I don’t know much. Hazel will tell you. She met him every Tuesday on her half-day. Poor Olwen. She used to go out dressed so nicely and when she came back her eyes would be shining in wonder. Except lately. She’d got a cynical touch lately. A few weeks back she said, “Do you think there’s any love that’s not selfish except a mother’s?” It wasn’t the sort of thing she usually said.’

  ‘What sort of a girl was she, Mrs Wilson? Was she vain, kindly, unselfish, callous – or what? What sort of things did she normally say?’

  ‘She says to me once – I’ll never forget it – “You’re the salt of the earth, Mrs Wilson,” she says, and blushed because she hadn’t meant to say it. Then she said – about Albert – “Do you miss him so that you have to relive every little moment you can remember to prevent yourself going mad?” Well, there was a time –’

  ‘Did she have any men friends?’

  ‘No. One or two in the years she’d been with me. Nobody at all for twelve months except this man.’

  ‘Did she mention anyone who was fond of her? I mean, someone whose affection she might not have reciprocated.’

  ‘She wasn’t bothered whether she had a boy or not,’ Mrs Wilson explained. ‘She’d always lived in a feminine world – nursing and then the hair dressing – and she was kind of innocent. Now, Hazel –’

  ‘Did she work at a hairdresser’s?’

  ‘Yes. Olga Harper’s on the main road.’

  ‘How long had she been there?’

  ‘Ever since she left the hospital.’

  ‘She’s only had the two jobs?’

  ‘I don’t know what she did before she came from Wales.’

  ‘Can you give me the address of her parents?’

  ‘Yes. It’s going to upset them, Inspector.’

  ‘There’s no way out of it,’ MacIndoe said. ‘Have you a photograph of Miss Hughes which you would be prepared to lend me?’

  ‘I’ve got a few snapshots.’

  ‘It would help us. We’d let you have them back. Will ye try to answer some questions about time now, Mrs Wilson? When did you last see Olwen?’

  ‘Tuesday morning,’ said Mrs Wilson. ‘She always gave me a cheerio.’

  ‘As far as you know she went to work as she usually did?’

  ‘Yes; at about half past eight yesterday. And she was togged up like I told you. Oh, I know what you’re going to ask me.’ Mrs Wilson said. ‘What did I think when she didn’t come back last night? You know what I thought. I thought she’d gone with this man. I was hurt, but I would have forgiven her. I loved the kid.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind,’ said MacIndoe. ‘Very brave too. I’ll take you back home now and then we’ll see Olwen’s employer. We’d like to see the other young lady – Hazel. When will she be in?’

  ‘Well, if she does the same as yesterday and Monday, she’ll come home at about three. She’s on early this week, see?’

  ‘Will you tell her not to touch anything in the room they shared?’ MacIndoe asked. ‘We’ll be along at about three o’clock.’

  He drove back through the still-pouring rain to Birlchester. Mrs Wilson supplied him with the address of Olwen’s parents and two photographs of the dead girl. One of these was very clear and MacIndoe knew that the photographic department would be able to enlarge it considerably. The honest, straight-forward face, with the wide eyes staring at the camera and the straight, good mouth slightly nervous, would soon be known to every detective constable in the county, and perhaps to the whole nation.

  From Mrs Wilson’s the Superintendent drove to the nearest kiosk to telephone the Almond Vale police. Maddocks had not returned; another officer took
the address of the victim’s parents, and MacIndoe knew that within the hour they, like Mrs Wilson, would be suffering. But it was a duty he could not avoid, and for them to learn the dreadful news from some newspaper would be inexcusable callousness … While he was in the box he looked for Mrs Olga Harper’s address in the telephone directory. It was described as a hairdressing establishment. Within two minutes he and Baker had reached it.

  Inside the shop the air was warm and sickly sweet. There were the usual pictures on the walls of girls with various coiffures, the discreet advertisements for personal hygiene; by the cash desk stood an electrical contraption that looked like a hat-stand. There were three cubicles, each screened by wood and frosted glass. Nobody could be seen, but a voice, suggesting plumpness, said, ‘It was second-degree burns. Poor little mite! They oughta done something when I told ’em …’ A girl’s voice said, ‘Yes. Excuse me a minute.’

  A dark, plump girl with a pale, wide face emerged from a cubicle.

  ‘Good morning,’ said MacIndoe. ‘We would like to see Mrs Olga Harper.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ the girl said. Her life seemed to be spent apologizing for minutes. She entered a second cubicle and there ensued some fierce muttering inside: ‘What do they want?’ – ‘I don’t know’ – ‘Well, ask, you fool’ – ‘They asked for you’ – ‘Everybody asks for me. Tell them to come back in an hour.’ The girl came out, no longer pale but a radiant pink, and said, ‘Could you come back in an hour? She’s very busy with a client.’

  MacIndoe smiled dourly. ‘Explain that we are police officers,’ he said.

  The girl returned inside the cubicle and the muttering recommenced: ‘Oh, my God, now what?’ – ‘They’re police officers’ – ‘What am I supposed to do? I haven’t done anything wrong’ – (You mean illegal, MacIndoe thought. You’re doing wrong now) – ‘Well, I thought’ – ‘You thought. That’s likely, I’m sure. All right, get on with your work’ – ‘Yes, Mrs Harper.’

  There was a flurry of white as the girl hurried past the two men. Then a short, thick-set woman, middle-aged, with carefully over-coiffured blonde hair, hard eyes and scarcely any lips, stepped reluctantly out of a cubicle and confronted the two detectives angrily. ‘Look here,’ she complained. ‘You ought to telephone before coming to see me. Everyone else has to – why not you?’

  ‘Mrs Olga Harper?’

  ‘Of course I’m Mrs Harper.’

  ‘We’re police officers investigating a murder,’ said MacIndoe. ‘We’ve only this minute obtained your address so an appointment was impossible. We wish to ask you about a girl named Olwen Hughes.’

  Mrs Harper had produced a nail file from a pocket and rasped away at the nails of her left hand. No pause in the battle for (or was it against?) beauty. Occasionally she lifted the fingers to her mouth and blew; it was as if she were working on a splendid piece of furniture. She only seemed to hear MacIndoe’s last two words, and her response was an increase in indignation. ‘It’s no good coming to me about that young woman,’ she said harshly. ‘If she’s got any complaint, she can come to make it herself. She wanted to go and I gave her a week’s money. We didn’t kiss bye-bye. What’s she moaning about, anyway?’

  MacIndoe said, returning the harshness, ‘Miss Hughes has been murdered.’

  The taut, painted face sagged momentarily, its innumerable lines seemed to slacken, and for a moment a new expression appeared: generosity, grief or bewilderment. (Where, along the line that brought me to this moment, did I go astray?) But the compassion was resisted. To yield to it would mean analysis. Better stick to safety, to the steam and the gadgets, the cash register and the copies of Vogue. She was not strong enough to surrender. ‘Well, well, what a thing to happen! Miss look-down-her-nose has got involved in something unpleasant. I always said she was too quiet. Still waters run deep, I said of that one.’

  ‘You say you gave her a week’s money and she went,’ MacIndoe queried. ‘Why?’

  ‘God knows. She just wanted to go home. They’re all the same. Just do what they like. Damn you, I’m all right – that’s the motto.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘She was killed yesterday afternoon in a copse,’ said MacIndoe. ‘Now, it’s very important that we establish as far as possible what Miss Hughes did; the times of her every movement and conversation.’

  ‘We were having our ten o’clock cuppa,’ Mrs Harper explained. ‘She said she wanted to talk to me privately. She said she wanted to go home.’

  ‘Did she mean to her local home or to Wales?’

  ‘You tell me. I didn’t ask. They think their every little affair is more important. “I’ll work until the holiday,” she said. Like hell you will, I thought, and gave her a week’s money.’

  ‘At what time did she leave? Ten o’clock?’

  ‘Well, say between a quarter and half past.’

  ‘Why didn’t she stay until the end of the day?’

  ‘It was her half day. She insisted on having it – said she’d got something important to do. Good God –’

  ‘Do you know what it was she had to do?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she say anything about it at all?’

  ‘No. Only about it being important.’

  ‘Would any of the girls know?’

  ‘I doubt it. They weren’t especially friendly.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘She worked too hard for ’em. They like to sit about talking.’

  ‘She worked hard?’

  ‘Well, yes …’

  ‘Why were you so willing to lose her, then?’

  ‘She wanted to go. I’m not going to plead with them.’

  ‘What was her behaviour like?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘I mean her behaviour here.’

  ‘It was good. She worked hard. Why not? She was a big, strong girl.’

  ‘Yes, but apart from her work.’

  ‘I never saw her socially. I’ve got my own life to lead.’

  ‘Didn’t she talk to you?’

  ‘She hadn’t much to say.’

  ‘How long had she been with you?’

  ‘About three years or so.’

  ‘She just came to work and went home? Didn’t she talk at all?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Well, then, what about?’

  ‘What d’you want to know about her for? I thought you said she was dead.’

  ‘Did she talk about her private affairs?’

  ‘They wouldn’t be private if she did, would they?’

  ‘Didn’t she confide in you at all?’

  ‘She’d talk sometimes about flowers, or the work, or her home, or an occasional film.’

  ‘Did she have any men friends?’

  ‘She never mentioned them.’

  ‘Did any ever call for her?’

  ‘Never. Some of the travellers liked her, but only because she was intelligent.’

  ‘Intelligent?’

  ‘I mean she attended to them properly.’

  ‘Did any of them ever take her out?’

  ‘No. Good God, they’re all middle-aged men with families.’

  ‘It was a married man she met each Tuesday.’

  ‘I didn’t know she met anyone – Tuesdays or not.’

  ‘Did anyone ever telephone her?’

  ‘I don’t allow private calls. They’d be on all the time.’

  ‘Have you seen Miss Hughes since she left this establishment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’d like to see the assistants,’ said MacIndoe. ‘They might remember something. How many are there?’

  ‘Only two. I haven’t replaced Olwen yet. You’d be
tter come in the office. This looks as if it’s going on all morning.’

  The office was another partitioned section. In its confined space were a desk, two chairs, an old typewriter, a telephone and, on the wall, a calendar. ‘I’ll go and get on with my work,’ Mrs Harper said.

  ‘Quite the duchess, isn’t she?’ Baker commented.

  MacIndoe grunted. ‘Leaving out her opinions, the rest’s quite useful.’ He would have said more, but the pale, plump girl entered with a brown-haired, tall, thin, bespectacled girl who looked alert enough to merit questioning. Both girls seemed shocked; the plump one was obviously quite nervous, but their apprehension was due to the impending interrogation. Through the nervousness of the bespectacled girl MacIndoe discerned fascination; he did not think either girl had any mental picture of Olwen’s sprawled, twisted body and its surrounding litter.

  ‘I’m Superintendent MacIndoe,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ve heard what has happened?’

  ‘We heard you talking,’ the taller girl said.

  ‘What we want to establish is who Miss Hughes’s friends and acquaintances were,’ explained MacIndoe gently. ‘Then we can ask them all when they last saw her and who with, and that sort of thing. What are your names?’

  ‘I’m Miss Barber,’ the plump one said.

  ‘Sheila Simson,’ the taller girl said.

  ‘Right,’ said MacIndoe. ‘Let’s establish first what happened yesterday morning. Suppose you tell me, Miss Simson.’

  ‘Well, everything seemed the same as usual,’ the girl said, beginning nervously and then gaining confidence. ‘But when we were having tea Olwen – that’s Miss Hughes – said to Mrs Harper, “Can I have a word with you?” or something like that. Anyway, they came in here and we could hear them speaking angrily.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear anything at all?’

  ‘Well, just before Olwen came out I did hear Mrs Harper say, “And don’t come back.” Olwen said, “I won’t,” and she walked straight out of the shop.’

  ‘Is that what you heard, Miss Barber?’