by Vera Morris
‘Did you say you knew Mr Wiles?’
As he was filling the kettle, his back stiffened. He snapped the lid shut and switched it on. He opened the cupboard, and she craned her head, but couldn’t see inside. He took some cups and saucers to the sink, rinsed and dried them, then placed them on the table; they were fine bone china, patterned with daffodils.
‘Yes, I’ve known Bert for many years. If he has been murdered I’m very sorry, but we weren’t friends, just neighbours. We have nothing in common, apart from both of us leading solitary lives.’ He carefully poured boiling water into a teapot and placed it on a stand on the table.
‘Excuse me.’ He left the kitchen and came back carrying a dining room chair. ‘Would you prefer to sit on this? It’s probably more comfortable than that.’ He pointed to the kitchen chair.
‘I’m fine. That’s a beautiful set of china, such a lovely pattern.’
He smiled, pouring tea into the cups and passing her one. ‘Milk? I’m sorry I don’t have any lemon. The china’s my mother’s. I haven’t used it in a long time. She’d be pleased to see it having an airing.’
She was able to glimpse something of the man he must have been. Cultured, well spoken, courteous, charming even, and she thought he was enjoying having someone to talk to and to share a cup of tea with. Her former feelings for him, empathy and sorrow for the loss of his wife and child, returned.
‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you some cake or a biscuit. I’m afraid I don’t buy them.’
She sipped the tea. It was strong and malty. ‘Just as well, I need to keep my weight down. The tea’s excellent.’
He smiled shyly. ‘Audrey said I always made a good cup of tea. I haven’t many domestic accomplishments, I’m afraid, but my mother insisted I learn to make decent tea.She said a drink of tea was the basis for an ordered existence. I never followed her logic there.’
They both laughed.
He hadn’t said much about Wiles. ‘What was Mr Wiles like? Can you think of any reason someone would kill him?’
He looked puzzled. ‘Why do you want to know? You said you’d never met him.’
She’d have to tread carefully. ‘I suppose I’ve become more interested in murder cases since...’
He placed his cup on the saucer. ‘Of course, stupid of me. I’m afraid it had the opposite effect on me. I can’t bear to read about such things.’
‘I think it helps to talk about it, somehow it makes the tragedy shrink, gives more room in your mind for other things. Otherwise the thoughts of how it happened and how much my sister suffered are overwhelming and you can’t think of anything else.’
He stared at her. ‘You’re very brave to face up to your sister’s death. I don’t think I’ve ever done that. All I think of is how she died, and that I wasn’t here to protect her.’ He paused, sipping his tea again. ‘What happened to the man who did it? Did he get a sufficiently long sentence?’
She looked at the table, not trusting the expression on her face. ‘No one was ever arrested for her murder.’ That was true. He, Vernon Deller, did get a death sentence, but not through the courts. That was her secret, one she’d shared with Frank; if he had turned her in for her part in Deller’s death, she’d be in gaol. She could never repay him for that.
His cup rattled against the saucer. ‘Really? That’s awful! Never to know who did such an awful crime. That must be difficult to bear. I’m sorry, Miss Bowman.’
‘The police did their best.’ That was a lie. The police thought Angela was a flighty girl who got what she deserved. ‘What happened to the man who killed your wife? They did find him, I hope?’
His smile had disappeared. ‘Yes. He was a young airman, based at a camp on the Ness.’
‘The Ness?’
‘Orford Ness. The stretch of land you can see from the quay. He was hanged.’
‘How did you feel about that?’
His eyes were full of pain. Should she be prying into his life? It must be a rare occurrence for him to reveal his feelings. She hoped Thomas Coltman was not the one responsible for the missing girls, or for the terrible murder committed nearby.
‘I don’t believe in the death penalty; I was glad when they abolished it. I wish the man, his name was Hovell, had been alive when I came back. I hated him, despised him, and if I’d been there on the day he attacked her, I would have killed him to save her and John, but I don’t believe in a State taking a person’s life. Also, sometimes the wrong person is hanged. At least, if a person is gaoled but they’re innocent, there’s always the possibility they may be released if the real murderer is discovered.’
‘You don’t think there was any doubt it was Hovell?’
He shook his head. ‘The evidence was overwhelming. I wish they hadn’t hanged him. I would have liked to see him, to ask him why he did it, to let him know what a truly lovely person Audrey was and to find out what he’d done with my boy’s body. I need to find him and place him with Audrey. Can she ever rest in peace without our son beside her?’
‘He never confessed to where he’d put John?’
‘No. In fact, he professed his innocence to the end, even as they took him to the gallows, so I was told. I tried to find out more about him, but when I went to his family’s address in London, they’d moved away and I couldn’t trace them.’
‘It’s understandable; their life must have been wrecked as well. Imagine having a child who grows up to be a murderer.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. And for him to be hanged. No wonder they moved away. They must have felt tainted, unable to meet the eyes of their neighbours and friends.’ He got up. ‘I’ll fetch a photo of Audrey. You said you would like to see her?’
‘Thank you, Mr Coltman, it’s good of you to show me.’
She quickly looked around as he left the room. How much time did she have? Not much. She opened the drawer in the table and looked inside. She’d been expecting to see nothing more interesting than knives and forks, or cooking utensils. On the right were three scalpels, of different sizes, fitted with removable blades. Could the wounds on Bert’s body have been made with these and not a cut-throat razor? Her heart was pounding against her ribs. She gulped and tried to take in the other contents of the drawer. There was a brown unsealed envelope. It contained short pieces of fine wire. There was a pile of paper: pages cut from magazines, photographs, or drawings of pretty girls, some obviously adverts. She closed the drawer. Should she leave now? Was this enough evidence for Revie to make an arrest? The door opened and Coltman came through holding two framed photographs. He didn’t seem to notice her agitation. She swallowed hard and tried to look interested.
He handed her one of the photographs. ‘This is John. My mother took him to Ipswich to have this taken.’
It was a formal studio photograph of a baby; he looked happy, with a sunny smile, dark hair and blue eyes.
‘Mother wanted me to be able to see him at different ages when I got back.’
‘He’s a lovely boy. He looks very bright and aware.’
His finger traced the boy’s outline. ‘I never knew him, or he me.’
She was torn between getting out quickly and trying to help him. Perhaps he used the scalpels for some kind of handicraft, and there was no crime in collecting pictures of pretty girls.
He passed her the second photograph. ‘This is Audrey. Wasn’t she beautiful?’
As she looked at the face in the frame an icy chill grasped her throat, making her unable to speak. The woman in the frame was indeed beautiful; she had dark hair falling about an oval face, a pale, smooth complexion, a small straight nose and almond-shaped eyes. The photograph had been tinted and her eyes were a clear blue. The resemblance to the photographs Sam Salter had shown them of the missing girls, Lucy Milne and Roberta Dodd, was so strong, she could have been their mother.
Chapter 15
Tuesday, June 29, 1971
Laurel sat on the edge of her chalet bed, not looking forward to the task
ahead. Frank had decided they needed to search the chalets of the main suspects for evidence. Searching a dead person’s room, although not pleasant, was interesting and revealing, but searching a room when the occupant was alive and might return to find you with your hands in their underwear drawer, was a different matter. The thought was making her jittery.
When she, Frank and Dorothy had met last night in Dorothy’s room at Sudbourne Hall, she’d told them about her meeting with Coltman and the discovery of the scalpels and pictures of pretty girls in the table drawer, and even more worrying, the close resemblance his late wife had to the missing girls.
‘Excellent. Well done,’ Frank said. ‘Mr Coltman goes to the top of the list of suspects. I’ll phone Revie and see if he thinks that’s enough evidence to bring him in for questioning.’
‘Goodness,’ Dorothy said. ‘Weren’t you scared, Laurel?’
She nodded vigorously. ‘I was. All I wanted to do was up sticks and get out of that house as soon as I could.’
‘Do you think he suspected your feelings?’ Frank asked.
She bit her lip. ‘No, I’m sure he didn’t. When I said I needed to get back to the camp, he thanked me for having tea with him. He said he felt much better having talked about Audrey and John, and he thought, for once, he might sleep that night. It seems he gets these awful dreams and walks the night away instead of going to bed.’
Frank leant forward. ‘Did he tell you what he dreamed about?’
‘No, and I didn’t want to know. I wanted to get away, although afterwards I wished I’d asked him. But I still can’t believe he’s capable of torturing and killing Wiles.’ She hesitated. ‘However, I’m not so sure about the missing girls -their resemblance to his wife is incriminating.’
Dorothy tapped her biro against her notepad. ‘We don’t know if the two things are connected. He might be responsible for the girls disappearing but have nothing to do with Bert’s murder.’
‘What about the scalpels?’ Laurel asked. ‘They could have been used to cut Bert Wiles and not a cut-throat razor.’
Frank leant back against his chair and Dorothy lit up a cigarette.
There was a long silence.
Frank straightened up. ‘You did well, Laurel. You’ve formed a relationship with Coltman and even though you couldn’t do much searching, what you found is important.’ He frowned. ‘This shows me what we need to do next.’
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘We need to search the chalets of Minnikin, Hinney and Frost. See if any incriminating articles are in their chalets. This will help us to move them up or down our list of suspects.’
‘Isn’t that risky? If we’re caught it will blow our cover,’ Dorothy said.
Frank’s jaw was set. ‘We need to check on these people. What Laurel found is significant, and it’s shown me how we can progress. We’re undercover, we can’t ask direct questions, but if we can give Revie something to persuade him there is a sinister side to the missing girls, he will want to get his team involved.’
She looked at Dorothy who was nodding her head. ‘How will we go about it?’
‘Can you get a master key for the chalets from Salter?’ he asked Dorothy.
‘I can ask him. He and Stephen should be back in half an hour.’
‘Excellent.’ He turned to Laurel. ‘I’ll search Hinney and Frost’s chalets and you can do Minnikin’s. I’ll act as lookout for you, and vice-versa.’
‘When will we do this?’
‘Tomorrow, if possible.’
‘I’ll check their rotas tomorrow morning,’ Dorothy said, ‘and somehow get in touch with one of you during my coffee break.’
‘Excellent.’ He turned to Laurel. ‘We’ll meet up after lunch and try and search the chalets tomorrow afternoon.’
Laurel looked at her watch, took a deep breath and picked up the master key from the table. She opened the chalet door. Frank was lounging against the wall of the chalet opposite, pretending to read a newspaper. He had a clear view of anyone approaching; they’d arranged if the suspect came back the watcher would bang on the chalet door, and hopefully they’d get out before it was too late. He looked up and nodded.
She ran to Nellie’s chalet, her heart beat rising with each stride. She fumbled the key as she tried to put it into the lock and it jumped out of her hand, making a metallic sound as it bounced on the path. Bugger! She could almost hear Frank laughing behind his newspaper. She snatched it up, shoved it into the lock, turned it and pulled open the door, slamming it behind her. What a detective!
She leant against the door, looking round the room; the layout was similar to hers. Where to start? Don’t think -do it! The bathroom didn’t reveal much, a bottle of Milk of Magnesia and one of Steradent, suggesting Nellie had a problem with her digestive system and false teeth.
On the bedside table were several books; the top one was a Barbara Cartland, the next The Price of Salt by Claire Morgan. She picked it up, frowning. Wasn’t this book written by a well-known author using a pseudonym? She wasn’t sure. Underneath it was Therese and Isabelle by Violette de Duc and lastly a pulp fiction novel, the cover showing two women, one blonde, the other brunette, in their undies, the blonde in black and the brunette in pink. Spring Fire by Vin Pecker. Frank and Dorothy would have a laugh at that name. Obviously, another pseudonym. She flicked through a few pages. Soft-core lesbian.
This seemed to corroborate her suspicions about Nellie. But was she active? One capable of murderous rage if her advances were rejected? One capable of kidnapping a desirable young woman to satisfy her sexual needs? She remembered Nancy Whintle asking her if she knew any homosexuals, when Nancy’s homosexual brother was murdered, and how she’d calmed her, saying she knew several homosexuals, men and women, and they were all good people, no different from the rest of humanity, except for their sexual orientation. Being a lesbian didn’t make you a murderer. However, Nellie’s interest in women had to be noted.
She opened the wardrobe. Smells of mothballs and lavender competed for dominance -camphor won. She searched all the pockets of coats, jackets and overalls, looked in shoes, but found nothing.
This was frustrating. She turned to the chest-of-drawers. Goodness, Nellie had an exotic taste in knickers. Would she be able to look her in the eye again without thinking of pink silk and cream lace? As she carefully lifted a pile of vests she found a small framed photograph. She picked it up and took it to the window. Probably it had originally been a black-and-white snap, but had faded to brown and sepia. Two girls, hair blowing sideways by a sea breeze, walked down a beach-side promenade. The girl on the right was a teenage Nellie, the smaller girl was blonde, pretty, smiling up at Nellie, whose arm was round the other girl’s shoulders; Nellie’s expression was one of love and admiration.
She gulped and placed it back underneath the vests, feeling guilty at uncovering such an intimate, long-ago secret. Where was the other girl now? Were they still friends? Or had Nellie lost her early love to another woman, or possibly a man? She sighed. Since the recent change in the law, it wasn’t a crime to love someone of the same sex, but the majority of people didn’t approve. Finding love was difficult enough if you were heterosexual, and sometimes when you thought you’d found it, it didn’t last. Her fiancé had dropped her when her sister was murdered, and his family were horrified by the scandal. She shuddered. Poor Nellie. She hoped she’d found someone to love and be loved back. She’d like to find someone herself. Was that someone Oliver?
Annoyed with herself for wasting time she started a quick search through the rest of the drawers, but found nothing. She looked around the room, making sure it looked undisturbed, opened the door and peeped out. Frank gave her the thumbs up and she strode towards him, and exchanged the key for the newspaper.Frank decided to search Hinney’s chalet first. He knew he was safely mowing the grass between the borders. He wondered if Laurel had found anything of value in Nellie’s chalet? She hadn’t said anything; her expression was one of relief at having completed h
er work undetected.
He scanned the bathroom, very neat and tidy; there was nothing of interest in the medicine cabinet: toothpaste, plasters, a bottle of Dettol, scissors, aspirin and an eye-bath. He moved into the main room. The most interesting things were in the bookcase to the left of the bed. He squatted down and looked at the books. Most were horticultural. He nodded approvingly. Two of his favourite writers were there: Vita Sackville-West’s Garden Book; he leafed through it. It was a compilation of her gardening articles from the Observer. Also, Hardy Perennials by Christopher Lloyd; Hinney went up in his estimation. Four volumes of Bean’s Trees and Shrubs Hardy in the British Isles, took up most of one shelf, together with a Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food book on British Poisonous Plants. Tomes on pruning fruit trees, vegetable gardening and growing flowers for decoration and many other books on horticulture filled the shelves. He shook his head. Hinney was much more erudite than he’d given him credit for. He was annoyed with himself -he hadn’t read Hinney correctly. He’d a real interest and love for his subject. Anyone who liked Christopher Lloyd’s writing couldn’t be all bad. His search of cupboards, drawers and wardrobes yielded nothing suspicious. You couldn’t arrest someone because they had a boring line in clothes.
He peered out of the window; Laurel looked engrossed in the newspaper; then she glanced up, looking down the road to see if anyone was approaching. He slid out of the door, locked it and raised a hand. She saluted back and he moved towards Frost’s chalet.
He wrinkled his nose as he entered it. The air was redolent with a mixture of Old Spice aftershave, suntan oil and cigarettes. The bathroom cupboard was crammed with toiletries; not only Old Spice and the suntan oil, but Brylcream for his hair, Nivea for his skin and several packets of condoms; at least he showed some sense of responsibility. The shelf was a mess of several combs, brushes, safety razors, blades, tweezers and small scissors. For nasal hairs? No sign of a cut-throat razor. Not a well organised man, but one who spent a deal of time and money on his appearance.