A Fatal Truth

by Faith Martin

  Susan shot a quick look at Clement, then looked away. ‘Well, they said that Mr Wilcox and Angela … well, that they were friendly, like. You know … very good friends. Even though Mr Wilcox is a married man.’

  She stared resolutely down into her teacup.

  ‘Oh, like that, is he? Yes, I thought he was that type,’ Trudy said careful to keep her voice light and free from shock. ‘He’s good-looking in a way, isn’t he? And I suppose some girls seem to go for the older man, don’t they?’

  Susan nodded, clearly relieved that they were all being so grown-up and sophisticated about things.

  ‘He hasn’t tried to get very friendly with you, has he Susan?’ Trudy asked gently.

  ‘What? Oh no … oooh, that’s a horrible thought, isn’t it?’ The blonde girl shuddered theatrically. ‘I mean, I suppose he’s all right, but he’s so old! Besides, I’ve already got a steady boyfriend. My Tarquin plays rugby and works for an insurance company. He won’t stand for no nonsense from the likes of Mr Wilcox,’ Susan said, with evident satisfaction, tossing her hair for good measure. ‘No, if he tries anything on, my Tarquin will soon sort him out.’

  Trudy glanced at Clement, who was doing a very good job of keeping a straight face. But underneath their shared levity, Trudy knew that they were both feeling better for the fact that this pretty young girl had a jealous boyfriend to watch out for her.

  ‘You know, if I were you Susan, I would ask the agency to find you a new position,’ Trudy advised gently. ‘When your boss has a bit of a reputation for being a ladies’ man, it can lead to all sorts of trouble. Believe me, I’ve seen it all before.’

  Susan nodded and sighed. ‘Yeah,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing really. Only I’ve been putting it off, because Mr Wilcox does pay well, and he’s being ever so nice to me.’

  I’ll bet he is, Trudy thought sourly, remembering the way Kenneth Wilcox had been eyeing her own figure on the sly throughout their interview. ‘But it’s not worth running the risk of upsetting Tarquin, is it?’ she said. ‘And if Mr Wilcox does make a pass at you, think how embarrassing that would be.’

  ‘Oh, don’t!’ Susan pleaded, and again gave a shudder. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t be able to carry on working for him then anyway, would I?’ She sighed heavily. ‘I’ll talk to the agency then,’ she said, a shade despondently.

  ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ Trudy said. ‘You do that. I don’t suppose you know where Angela’s working now do you?’ she added with cunning idleness.

  But there, it seemed, the pretty Miss Susan Royal couldn’t help them.

  ‘That girl worries me,’ Trudy said a few minutes later, as they stood on the pavement outside the cake shop watching her walk back to work. ‘She strikes me as the sort who could get easily hurt.’

  ‘Not with her Tarquin around to sort things out,’ Clement reminded with a grin. In his mind, he was picturing some hulking, not-too-bright or particularly handsome scion of an upper-middle class family, pleased as punch to have landed himself such a pretty girlfriend, and determined to look after her.

  Trudy laughed, but quickly grew more sombre. ‘I need to track down this Angela Calver and see what she has to say for herself. Reading between the lines, I think our Mr Wilcox goes through pretty secretaries like most men go through a box of cigars.’

  ‘Hmmm. But is that relevant to our case?’ Clement asked.

  ‘It is if Thomas Hughes knew about it and was threatening to do something about it,’ Trudy shot back promptly. ‘We already know that he was fond of throwing his weight around in that family. What if Kenneth, aggravated by having to live with the man all those years, decided he’d simply had enough and was going to do something about it.’

  Clement nodded. It sounded feasible enough. ‘OK. I’ve got to get back to the office and do some “proper” work. You track down this Angela woman and we’ll meet up again tomorrow. Say, ten o’clock?’

  ‘Fine. But I’m not sure how much longer Inspector Jennings is going to let me carry on with all this. If we don’t have something by the end of the week, I think we’ll have to close the file,’ Trudy predicted glumly.

  Clement sighed. ‘It’ll probably come to that. We’re not exactly getting anywhere, are we?’

  ‘No. It doesn’t feel like it, does it?’

  The evening edition of the Oxford Tribune was available at the news-stands and in the shops by five o’clock that evening, ideal for people who were leaving work to pick up a copy to read over their supper.

  In the living room of her home, listening vaguely to her flatmate moan about the mess the bin men had made outside the door that morning, Caroline Benham read the leading article. It was by that man Gillingham again, and he seemed to be hinting that the police investigation into her father’s death was speeding up.

  As she read, she leaned forward in her chair a little. Was she mistaken, or did it sound as if Kenneth and, perhaps Godfrey, were coming under the most suspicion?

  Caroline smiled grimly. What an idiot that reporter must be, she thought scornfully. Godfrey didn’t have the guts to commit murder, and Kenneth was far too fond of his own skin to put it in jeopardy.

  No. It would take someone very different from either of those two to kill somebody. It would take, she thought grimly and with considerable approbation, someone who knew all there was to know about hate or desperation.

  With a smile, she tossed the paper aside. The police could investigate all they liked, for all the good it would do them.

  In his study, surrounded by his erotic art, Godfrey Hughes alternately fretted and fumed and paced about, flinging the newspaper on the sofa in disgust. He’d sue – that’s what he would do. Why, reading between the lines, this reporter fellow was all but accusing him of murdering his own father! Him or Kenneth.

  Weren’t there libel laws to prevent this sort of thing? He’d contact his solicitor in the morning and jolly well …

  But then, pursuing a legal action would mean paying the legal chaps a veritable fortune, wouldn’t it? And it wasn’t as if he could afford to finance a court case.

  He glanced around the room at his beloved pieces of art, and sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. Perhaps he wouldn’t sue then. After all, nobody was taking it seriously, were they? And the newspaper would very soon regard his late unlamented father as old news and then they’d forget about it and go on to bother someone else.

  No, all he had to do was wait it out, he decided. And it wasn’t as if he was in any danger, he reassured himself. Even if the police were to be so foolish as to arrest him … Well, he could always point them in the right direction, if needs be. Although everyone was keeping quiet out of loyalty, no one would blame him if he were to be forced to spill the beans.

  It wasn’t as if all the family hadn’t guessed the truth from the moment the first sparks began to rise from the garden shed …

  Chapter 29

  Frank Loveday came home that night to be greeted by the smell of toad-in-the-hole, one of his favourite dinners, emanating from the kitchen. Also coming from the kitchen he heard the conversation of the two most important women in his life and as he hung up his coat in the hall, he was already smiling as he walked in to join them.

  He lightly tossed the evening paper onto the table, and walked over to kiss his wife, who was draining potatoes for mashing.

  ‘Evening love,’ he said, then smiled across at his daughter. ‘You managing to keep dry on the beat?’

  Trudy nodded. She hadn’t told them she was working on a special case with the coroner again, because she knew how much they worried about her.

  ‘Yes, the weather’s not too bad if you keep moving,’ she hedged. After all, she was doing her regular duties part of the time as well. ‘How’s Bertha?’ she asked teasingly.

  Her father called all the buses he drove Bertha, and invariably they displeased him in some way or other.

  ‘She’s guzzling oil like’s there no tomorrow,’ her father predictab
ly complained, but the twinkle in his eye let on to the fact that he knew he was the butt of the joke.

  ‘Trudy, would you mind stirring the gravy, love?’ her mother said. ‘It’ll go lumpy whilst I’m cutting up the toad-in-the-hole otherwise.’

  Trudy obligingly went over to stand by the cooker and started stirring the wooden spoon around in the gravy saucepan. Her mother had just started to open the oven door when the telephone bell went.

  They’d had a telephone installed in the hall only a month ago, and it was still something of an ‘event’ to hear it ring. But once Trudy had made it clear that she was going to carry on working for the police after her probationary period finished, her parents had decided the instrument was going to become more and more of a necessity. Besides, it beat walking down to the bottom of the street to use the public phone box all the time – especially in the rain!

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Trudy said, turning the heat off from under the now bubbling gravy, and walking quickly out into the hall.

  ‘Hello?’ She knew that proper telephone etiquette demanded that she was supposed to cite the number now, but before she could even start to remember what it was, a familiar voice cut across the ether.

  ‘Well, I am in luck, it’s the lady herself! I was half-expecting to have to sweet talk my way past your father.’ Duncan Gillingham’s cheeky tones filled her ear.

  ‘Humph, you’d never have managed it,’ Trudy shot back acerbically. She had a bone to pick with this particular man, but even as she felt her anger begin to ignite, she remembered that her parents were sitting just through the open doorway, which meant that having an argument on the telephone now was out of the question.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Gillingham?’ she forced herself to say politely instead.

  ‘Well, you can start by agreeing to meet up with me to swap information again,’ he responded, and Trudy could have sworn she could hear laughter lurking behind his tone. No doubt he thought it very funny that she was being so prim and formal with him.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question,’ she said, and this time was able to smile happily. If this brash reporter thought she was going to fall for the same trick twice, he could damned well think again.

  Duncan sighed slightly. He didn’t know what had happened to put him in the doghouse, but something clearly had. And that could be a problem. He needed this particular member of the law firmly on his side.

  He changed tactics. ‘Oh? I thought we had the makings of a good team. Don’t tell me you ignored my tip about Kenneth Wilcox?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t give out sensitive information over the telephone, Mr Gillingham,’ Trudy said, again with a smile. Thwarting him at every turn was turning out to be a pleasant game.

  ‘Ahh, so you did go and talk to him!’ Duncan interpreted, and Trudy felt herself scowl. ‘And don’t tell me that a sensible, sensitive girl like you didn’t pick up on something being off about him, because I won’t believe you. The things I could tell you about him would make your hair curl – which is another good reason why we should meet up again for a cup of tea soon.’

  He waited hopefully, but there was only a long, speaking silence.

  Duncan sighed. ‘All right, all right, have it your way.’ He sought out a bone to throw her so that he could get back in her good books. He didn’t really want to do it, as he wanted her concentrating all her efforts on the baby-killer, but as his old granny would have said, needs must when the devil drives. ‘I take it you don’t want to know why the old man was so down on his little sister then?’ He selected a victim at random.

  In her hallway, Trudy felt herself stiffen. ‘You’re talking about Mary Everly?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘Yes, that’s her – the merry widow,’ Duncan confirmed irreverently. He had, as a matter of course, done his homework on all the Hughes family, mainly to see if he could dig up any more dirt on Kenneth. But in the process, he’d learned all sorts of things.

  ‘What about her?’ Trudy asked cagily, making him smile in triumph. Yes, she was back in the fold. He was not at all surprised that she’d hadn’t been able to ferret out the existence of Mary Everly’s new fiancé. People often told things to reporters that they’d never dream of telling the coppers, especially if a little money helped to grease the way.

  ‘Why don’t we meet up tomorrow and I’ll tell you,’ he wheedled.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me now,’ Trudy shot back.

  ‘On an open line? Tut, tut, WPC Loveday, surely you know better than that?’

  Trudy heaved a massive sigh. ‘All right. Tomorrow morning, first thing. Same place as before. You can buy me breakfast,’ she added cheekily, and before he could make any retort, she hung up.

  It wasn’t until she returned to the kitchen, and saw both her parents looking her speculatively, that she realised she might have some explaining to do.

  Barbara Loveday took one look at her daughter’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and felt both worried and pleased. ‘Who was that on the phone love?’ she asked flat out.

  ‘Oh. Nothing, it was work,’ Trudy tried to dismiss the subject, but without much hope.

  ‘It didn’t sound like work,’ Barbara pressed (just as Trudy had suspected she would), as she set about dishing out the meal.

  ‘Well, it was,’ Trudy insisted. Then, knowing of old that her mother wouldn’t let it go until she was fully satisfied, she sighed. ‘He’s a reporter, that’s all. He’s the one doing those articles in the Tribune on that fatality up at Headington. I’m looking into the case, and he was just trying to get a quote from me.’

  Her father, who’d been reading the Tribune, turned and tapped the latest evening headlines. ‘This the chap?’ he asked, pointing out Duncan’s byline.

  Trudy, who hadn’t seen the latest edition, took the paper from him, and began to read the latest article. As she did so, her anger slowly returned and began to shimmer.

  ‘POLICE ABOUT TO MAKE AN ARREST?’

  Under this bold (and utterly inaccurate) headline was Duncan Gillingham’s name and a speculative mishmash of speculation and innuendo that invited the reader to read between the lines and conclude that Thomas Hughes’s son-in-law was about to be in for a rough ride from the police. And he didn’t mean Caroline Benham’s ex-husband either.

  ‘That bloody man!’ Trudy said, outraged. Just what game was he playing?

  ‘Trudy!’ her mother said sharply. ‘Language!’

  Trudy swallowed. ‘Sorry Mum,’ she mumbled. ‘But honestly, he does make my blood boil sometimes. If DI Jennings reads this, he’s going to haul me in and ask me what’s going on, and I won’t be able to tell him!’

  Her father’s lips twitched. ‘You sound as if you know this reporter chap well,’ he mused.

  ‘No,’ Trudy denied hotly and instantly. ‘Why would you think that?’ she added, not missing – or liking – the way her parents exchanged knowing looks.

  ‘Well, strangers don’t usually get under your skin the way this Duncan Gillingham chap seems to have done,’ Frank Loveday explained with a knowing grin.

  ‘I’ve met him once. Well, twice, technically,’ Trudy said reluctantly.

  ‘What’s he like?’ Barbara asked avidly, sitting down and reaching absently for the bottle of brown sauce to squirt over her sausages.

  Trudy shrugged. ‘Like most reporters, I suppose,’ she said insouciantly, as if she knew that many! ‘Far too sure of himself for one thing, and determined to get under my feet.’

  ‘Ah. How old is he?’ Barbara asked casually.

  ‘I don’t know. Twenty-five or six perhaps.’

  ‘Good-looking, is he?’ her mother asked, and Trudy shot her a speaking look.

  ‘I didn’t notice,’ she said flatly, trying to ignore the image of the handsome man with the black hair and intriguing cat-green eyes.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Barbara said thoughtfully.

  Her father, wisely, retreated back behind the newspaper.

  Trudy had just reach
ed for the gravy saucepan to pour some over her mashed potatoes when her mother said, ‘Why don’t you invite him over for tea some time?’

  ‘Mum!’ Trudy wailed.

  Chapter 30

  The next morning Duncan was at the café bright and early and looking forward to seeing Trudy Loveday again. He wondered if she’d take her cap off today, and if she’d be wearing that light citrus-scented perfume she’d been wearing before.

  Before drifting off to sleep last night he’d gone over how he’d play it today, and if he should ask her out on a date. A proper date, with none of this air of ‘just business’ to spoil things. He had to admit, there was something about her that nagged very pleasantly at him. She seemed such an odd contrast somehow. An innocent, but a copper, of all things. A natural beauty, who genuinely didn’t seem to be aware of the fact. A little spitfire, but with a prim and proper attitude that made him want to shake her up a bit.

  Of course, he’d have to be careful to take her somewhere where none of Glenda’s friends were likely to frequent but that …

  His pleasant thoughts skidded to a rather abrupt halt as Trudy walked through the door – closely followed by an older man. It took Duncan only a few seconds to remember where he’d seen him before – which had been residing over the inquest into Thomas Hughes’s death. In another moment, his formidable memory came up with the name.

  ‘Constable Loveday, Dr Ryder, thank you for agreeing to see me,’ he said formally, rising from his seat at the table he’d picked because it was furthest away from the window, and reaching out to shake their hands. None of his chagrin or displeasure at finding her accompanied was allowed to show on his face.

  Clement nodded, looking at him curiously.

  When Trudy had arrived at his office and told him they had to go somewhere else before interviewing Angela Calver (whom she’d tracked down to her job in a record shop in Little Clarendon Street) he’d been amenable. And when she’d told him about the phone call to her home from Duncan Gillingham last night, he’d been very amenable indeed.