The Loophole

by Vera Morris

  He moved to the main room and started on the chest-of-drawers. There was more organization here; all the contents were expensive: crisp cotton handkerchiefs with the woven initials CS, racy underpants, a few vests and in the drawer beneath, several fine wool sweaters in the same V-necked pattern in blue, cream and pale green. The last drawer contained folded shirts and more jumpers, thicker and chunkier. He felt underneath them. His fingers slid over glossy paper. Magazines. He carefully folded the clothes back and laid the magazines on the bed.

  Pornography. He looked at them in turn, making sure he kept them in the right order. It was a mixture of different levels, from top-of-the-shelf stuff, to hardcore, sadomasochistic porn. He flicked through them. What would Laurel think if she saw these? Her sympathetic feelings towards Frost might take a dive. He looked closer. The wanker, and he thought that was no exaggeration, had given each of the girls a mark out of ten. He wasn’t sure how his marking scheme was devised, but it certainly wasn’t for fashion sense. After a few pages, he flicked back. Frost definitely preferred brunettes. Hard luck, Laurel.

  The last magazine was truly disgusting: young girls and women tortured, strung up, handcuffed, beaten, throttled by muscular men in masks. Close ups of breasts and vaginas being cut, invaded... A bitter taste filled his mouth. He went back into the bathroom and spat into the basin, turning the tap on to wash away his bile and disgust. He placed the magazines back in the drawer and carefully placed the clothes over them. He wanted to ring up Revie and tell him to arrest Frost, but he knew the possession of filth didn’t mean you were a murderer. However, Frost had a prurient interest in torture and the degradation of women, and so he became of greater interest.

  The wardrobe was full of blazers, smart trousers and two suits as well as a well-stocked tie and belt rack. On its floor were several pairs of leather shoes, all with shoetrees. Charlie Frost didn’t stint himself. He pulled out a plastic bag tucked into a corner of the wardrobe, and there was a metallic clink as he turned its contents onto the bed. A pair of handcuffs, a leather gag and a knuckle duster fell onto the bedspread. He wondered when these had last been used. Or was Frost a fantasist? Had the handcuffs clamped wrists? The gag pushed between soft lips? The knuckleduster smacked against cringing flesh?

  Charlie Frost moved up the list of suspects.

  Dorothy sat in her room waiting for Frank and Laurel. She sighed deeply. This wasn’t what she’d imagined when she’d insisted she wanted to play a more active role in the detective agency. She’d thought she would be able to uncover clues leading to the discovery of what had happened to the two girls, but she’d made a poor contribution. Laurel and Frank had uncovered several interesting facts, especially Laurel, and tonight they’d tell her what they’d found in the suspects’ chalets. When she’d offered to search Sam Salter’s private rooms, Frank had vetoed the idea and Laurel had backed him up.

  ‘Much too dangerous, Dorothy,’ she’d said.

  She was sure they didn’t want her to search his rooms, not because it was dangerous, but because they didn’t trust her to do a competent job. They were afraid Salter would find out she’d been snooping and cancel the agency’s involvement in the search for the girls.

  When she heard the front door bell, she went downstairs. She shook her shoulders and tried to put on an animated expression. She hoped the case would soon be solved and she could return to Dunwich and her role as agency administrator.

  Laurel and Frank bundled into her room, laughing as they both tried to get into it at the same time.

  ‘Laurel’s shoulders are getting broader each time I see her,’ Frank said.

  ‘And your hands are getting rougher -look at your finger nails! Disgraceful!’ Laurel pointed at Frank’s hands.

  Frank inspected the offending articles. He shook his head. ‘No matter how often you scrub them, somehow the dirt creeps back.’

  Dorothy sat down. ‘Shall we get down to business?’

  They both looked at her.

  Laurel sat down beside her on the settee. ‘Are you all right, Dorothy?’

  ‘Fine, couldn’t be better.’ She edged away from Laurel. ‘We need to get on. Did you find anything in the chalets?’ She brandished her notebook and biro.

  Laurel and Frank exchanged another look.

  She glared at them. ‘You go first, Laurel.’

  She told them about Nellie’s choice in literature and the photograph.

  ‘Not a very productive search,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘I disagree,’ Frank said, ‘it confirms Laurel’s initial suspicion -Nellie is a lesbian, and that gives her a possible motive. She moves up a notch in the suspects list.’

  Laurel looked grateful.

  Guilt pinched at Dorothy’s conscious. ‘True,’ she managed to utter.

  Frank told them what he’d found in Hinney’s chalet. ‘Nothing incriminating there, as far as I could see, but it’s a different matter as far as Frost is concerned.’ He didn’t spare them any details.

  She felt her face flush, not with embarrassment, but with anger and disgust.

  Laurel looked as though she’d chewed on a slug. ‘How am I going to work with him without looking disgusted?’ she asked.

  ‘As a professional detective, you’ll have to hide your feelings,’ Frank said.

  Dorothy rapped the biro against her notebook, wishing it was a stick to beat Frost. ‘This certainly makes him a stronger suspect than anyone else.’

  ‘Apart from Coltman. Although I feel deeply sorry for the man and the terrible life he’s had, the scalpels and the pictures of the girls made my flesh creep,’ Laurel said.

  ‘We haven’t got enough to pin this onto anyone at the moment, although Revie might be persuaded to bring Coltman in for questioning.’ He turned to her. ‘Have you got anything of interest to report, Dorothy?’

  She felt her face grow hot once more, this time for a different reason. ‘Being as I wasn’t allowed to do any searching, the only thing I can tell you is that I’ve accepted Belinda Tweedie’s invitation to her house in Orford for a drink and a chat tomorrow night. I don’t suppose I’ll learn anything new, but she continues to be suspiciously nice to me, and as I haven’t got anything to do, I thought I might as well go.’ She got up and thumped her notebook down on the table. ‘Anyone like a drink?’

  Laurel got up and took her arm. ‘Are you sure you want us to stay, Dorothy? I’d love a scotch, but not if you’re going to be grumpy.’

  Frank raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re living dangerously, Miss Bowman!’

  Dorothy looked at them over the rim of her glasses. She was letting this get on top of her. She remembered how supportive they’d been, as well as Stuart and Mabel, when her twin sister Emily was murdered; how her involvement in the agency had given her an anchor, so she didn’t drift off into a sea of misery.

  ‘I want you both to stay. I’m sorry I’ve been so ratty, it’s because I think I’m achieving so little. It would have been better if I’d stayed in Dunwich.’

  Laurel hugged her. ‘I need you here, and so does Frank. It’s given us a base, and talking through all the points with you puts a clear perspective on the case.’

  She hugged Laurel back. ‘Scotch?’

  ‘Make it a double, Dorothy,’ Frank said. ‘You never know, Buxom Belinda might confess to the crimes.’

  She sniffed as she poured whisky into a cut-glass tumbler. ‘She’d faint if you put tomato ketchup on your chips!’

  Laurel shook her head. ‘I’ve told you before, Dorothy, you can’t judge a book by its cover. I’ve been fooled too often in the last year by seemingly innocent or harmless people.’ She turned to Frank. ‘I think we ought to be nearby when Dorothy goes to see Belinda.’

  Frank nodded. ‘Agreed.’

  She tried to suppress a smile of pleasure. It was good when people cared about you, especially people dear to your heart. ‘Nonsense! Does anyone want their drinks cut with water? Thought not.’ She passed them round. ‘Anyone want to stay and watch
Wimbledon, Match of the Day?’

  Laurel looked at Frank. He nodded. ‘Good idea. We all need a break from this case.’

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday, June 30, 1971

  As Dorothy drove to Belinda Tweedie’s house the low rays of the evening sun dazzled her, making her nauseous; she was still feeling the results of drinking too many whiskies the night before. However, her hangover was worth it as she’d enjoyed her evening with Laurel and Frank; it had been like old times. She snorted. Old times! A year ago, she hadn’t met either of them. What a year -from school secretary, to sacked school secretary, to administrator of a detective agency and now, undercover detective. She shook her muzzy head, trying to clear it. Her present role was not a success, although both Laurel and Frank assured her she was playing an important part in the investigation. She didn’t believe them but was pleased they’d said so. Thank goodness she’d persuaded them not to come with her to Belinda’s, promising she’d return by nine o’clock and would let one of them see her.

  As she pulled up outside Belinda’s house she resolved to try and be pleasant towards her. The poor woman obviously saw her as a rival for Sam Salter’s affections. She must reassure her that wasn’t the case, but it wouldn’t be fair to encourage Belinda to believe Sam was keen on her. It would be better if she could accept that Sam would never look at her in that way, whatever had happened in the past.

  The difficulties of being in love. She pulled on the handbrake, and through the open window listened to the lush evening bird song. She put a hand to her throat. She’d been in love once, it seemed a lifetime ago, at least half a life time, nearly thirty years. If she didn’t have his photograph on her bedside table, she doubted she’d be able to clearly recall him. She hadn’t brought it with her and she missed seeing his dear face. She had loved him for his passion for life, his sense of humour, his willingness to have a go at anything and not mind if he made a fool of himself. What would her life have been like if he’d survived the war? Would they have had children? Where would they have lived? She couldn’t imagine not living at Greyfriars House with Emily, but now Emily was dead.

  Thank God for Laurel, Mabel, Frank and Stuart, and her friends in the village. They’d helped her, and were still helping her through a difficult time. To be in love. There was no feeling like it. She was lucky, she’d loved and been loved back. For Belinda, there was only disappointment and jealousy as she thought Sam Salter was falling for someone else. Dorothy snorted. How could Belinda believe Sam was interested in her? Ridiculous! She mentally slapped her hand; she’d been naughty encouraging the notion; she must lay that one to rest this evening.

  The front door opened and Belinda burst out and rushed down the path. She’d obviously been waiting for her by the window. She wore a cream dress with puff sleeves, a low neckline and a skirt several inches above her knees. Dorothy’s magnanimous feelings started to fade. She mentally told herself to behave. Probably Belinda thought she looked a frump in her cotton skirt and sensible blouse. To each his own.

  She got out of the car, picked up her handbag and walked towards Belinda, not bothering to lock the car; who was going to pinch an old Morris Traveller?

  Belinda hugged her. ‘I thought you weren’t coming. Do come in,’ she gushed, pushing her up the path and through the open front door.

  What was the hurry?

  Belinda turned and looked down the road. ‘Go in. Go in.’ Once they were inside and the door closed, she relaxed. ‘I’m so pleased you came, we can have a nice drink and a chat.’ She beamed at her and opened the door to the sitting room.

  What a peculiar welcome. First nervous and twitchy, then rather too warm and effusive. Why the sudden change? Had she decided she wasn’t a rival for Sam’s affections?

  ‘Do have a seat.’ Belinda pointed to the pink settee.

  Its velour was harsh and rough against Dorothy’s skin, like the coat of a short-haired terrier, and the perfume drifting from a bowl of pink roses was overpowering. Why hadn’t Belinda opened a window? It was a warm, pleasant evening. She couldn’t breathe properly.

  ‘You must have a drink,’ Belinda said. ‘A glass of wine? I’ve red or white.’

  This was the last thing she wanted, but she didn’t want to seem rude, and she’d promised herself to be nice to Belinda. ‘Thank you, but could I have a glass of water first, and perhaps a glass of wine later?’

  Belinda looked hurt. ‘But you will have some wine, won’t you?’

  Oh, dear. Then she remembered the wine bottles in the fridge when she’d snooped in the kitchen when Belinda was unwell. Perhaps she badly needed a glass and doesn’t want to look as though she’s desperate. ‘Yes, I’d love some, but a glass of water first, please, as I do feel thirsty. Then I can enjoy the wine. It’s very kind of you to entertain me like this, Belinda.’

  Belinda bustled out and quickly returned with a silver tray, on which was a glass of water, another of red wine and a lazy Susan, its compartments filled with crisps, peanuts and horrible Twiglets; vile things, coated with blobs of salty brown stuff.

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ she said. You hypocrite, Dorothy Piff. If Emily had been here she would have given her an old-fashioned look, and they would have corpsed and ruined the occasion.

  Belinda passed her a miniscule napkin and pointed to the Lazy Susan; she took a few crisps and some peanuts. Belinda handed her the glass of water and for a few embarrassing seconds she juggled everything before managing to put the glass down on a side table.

  ‘Drink up, Dorothy, then you can have some wine.’

  Was she trying to get her squiffy then interrogate her on her relationship with Sam Salter? She smiled back and sipped the water.

  Belinda tipped back a third of her glass, a few drops of wine escaping, gliding down her chin. She dabbed at them with her napkin. ‘Have you settled in at Sudbourne Hall?’

  Dorothy swallowed a crisp, coughed and had a drink of water. ‘Yes, it’s a lovely place. I do like the way the house has been built, it’s so spacious.’

  Belinda wriggled against the plush of her seat, her nyloned legs scratching against the velour. ‘Do you think your move will be permanent? You won’t want to go home, will you, after living in such luxury?’ She smiled, but couldn’t hide the note of envy in her voice.

  Dorothy wasn’t sure which way to play it. If she told Belinda she wouldn’t be staying at the camp long, she might be so pleased to hear about her departure, she wouldn’t reveal much. She decided on an enigmatic smile and no answer.

  Belinda’s nostrils flared.

  She changed the topic of conversation, hoping she might learn something new. ‘Sally was telling me about the two girls who disappeared, one last year and one the year before. She said one worked in the office. Is that right?’

  Belinda’s wine glass wobbled; she grasped the stem with both hands. ‘Why do you want to know about her?’

  ‘Sally said she’d heard she was nice, and very pretty, and Mr Salter was paying her attention and had taken her out a few times. Sally imagined what it would be like to be Mrs Sam Salter, the second, with all that money and posh cars.’

  Belinda lower lip protruded, as though she was about to have a tantrum; she looked like an elderly baby in her cream dress. ‘That’s disgusting. I’ll have a word with that Sally. It’s rubbish. Mr Salter wasn’t interested in that girl. He was just being kind. She was a silly, stupid girl.’

  ‘Was? You think she’s dead?’

  Belinda placed her wine glass on the table. ‘No, of course not. She hasn’t been seen for ages, that’s all.’

  ‘Perhaps she went back to her parents. Have any of you heard from them?’

  Belinda blinked hard, as though there was something in her eye. ‘No,’ she whispered. She turned her head towards the kitchen, as though listening for something, then turned back. ‘I’ll fetch you a glass of wine. Red or white?’

  She still didn’t want any, but as this conversation was getting interesting, at least Belinda’s react
ions were, it meant she would have something to report back to Laurel and Frank. She nodded. ‘That would be lovely, white please.’

  Belinda took the tray and her own glass to the kitchen and returned with a wine glass two-thirds full of white wine and her own brimming with red.

  She hadn’t put her down as a lush, but she certainly seemed to need the prop of alcohol tonight. ‘What was the name of the girl who worked in the office?’

  Belinda took a long swallow. ‘Roberta Dodd,’ she spat. ‘She had loose morals. Went off with some married man, I expect.’

  ‘Really? Sally said she was a nice girl, came from a respectable home. That isn’t in character.’

  Belinda’s pale face contorted. ‘What does she know?’ She glared at Dorothy. ‘Don’t you like the wine? You haven’t drunk any yet.’

  She took a small sip. It tasted awful, it might be good wine but last night’s session had left her mouth in a foul state. She quickly chewed at a crisp. ‘Lovely, but could I have some more water?’ She passed Belinda her empty water glass. ‘I’m afraid I drank too much whisky last night.’

  Belinda’s eye narrowed. ‘With Mr Salter?’

  Damn. Shouldn’t have said that. ‘Er, yes. We had quite a session.’ Well, she couldn’t tell her who’d she really been drinking with. She should have kept her mouth shut.

  ‘Drink the wine up, I’ll get you some water.’ She went to the kitchen.

  She had to get rid of it, but she’d offended Belinda enough as it was. She got up and poured most of the wine into the vase of pink roses until it was almost full. She grabbed her handbag and took out a bottle of aspirin. She unscrewed it, pulled out the plug of cotton wool, tipped the tablets into her handbag and poured the rest of the wine into it. She hoped it wouldn’t leak out and spoil the lining of her bag. At least it was white wine and wouldn’t show.