Murderer's Fen

by Andrew Garve

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered!

  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

  About Bello:

  www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello

  About the author:

  www.panmacmillan.com/author/andrewgarve

  Contents

  Andrew Garve

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  PART THREE

  Chapter One

  PART FOUR

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Andrew Garve

  Murderer's Fen

  Andrew Garve

  Andrew Garve is the pen name of Paul Winterton (1908–2001). He was born in Leicester and educated at the Hulme Grammar School, Manchester and Purley County School, Surrey, after which he took a degree in Economics at London University. He was on the staff of The Economist for four years, and then worked for fourteen years for the London News Chronicle as reporter, leader writer and foreign correspondent. He was assigned to Moscow from 1942/ 5, where he was also the correspondent of the BBC’s Overseas Service.

  After the war he turned to full-time writing of detective and adventure novels and produced more than forty-five books. His work was serialized, televised, broadcast, filmed and translated into some twenty languages. He is noted for his varied and unusual backgrounds – which have included Russia, newspaper offices, the West Indies, ocean sailing, the Australian outback, politics, mountaineering and forestry – and for never repeating a plot.

  Andrew Garve was a founder member and first joint secretary of the Crime Writers’ Association.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Alan Hunt lay back in his deck chair above the fiord, bare-chested, browning his splendid, muscular torso in the August sun. He was a big, blond, strikingly handsome man. His age was just short of thirty.

  From all around came cheerful holiday sounds—gay laughter, the splash of water, the thud of tennis balls, the putter of outboard motors, the creak of oars. Hunt, having risen early and swum for an hour, had no urge to join in the activity at the moment. But it made a pleasant and soothing background to his thoughts.

  Presently, a deeper throb caused him to raise his head. The hotel launch was coming in with a new batch of guests from the mainland. As usual, it was pretty full. The hotel was on the itinerary of many package tours, and as most of the guests stayed only for a day or two there was always a busy two-way traffic across the fiord. This batch seemed much like any other—a lot of young people in lively groups, families with children, a few elderly couples … Then, as Hunt lazily looked them over, his eye was caught by a girl—and he suddenly sat up. She was standing between a middle-aged man and woman, pointing something out on the shore. What had caught Hunt’s attention was a head of glorious chestnut hair. He had always had a special weakness for redheads of that shade. He wondered what the rest of her would be like. He continued to watch as the launch drew in to the quay and the boatman made it fast.

  He could see the girl better, now. As she stepped ashore, he sized up her points with a practised eye. Good legs, smashing figure. Hair wavy, and worn shoulder length. Good carriage, head held up. Medium height, graceful. A youthful twenty, he reckoned … Accompanied by parents.…

  Passing Hunt’s chair on the way to the reception desk, she gave him an interested glance. Most girls did … At close quarters, she looked even more attractive. Dimples, he noted. Deep blue eyes—wonderful with that hair. Not much make-up but with her complexion and colouring she didn’t need much. No ring on her finger. Very fresh-looking. Untouched by hand, Hunt guessed. A succulent dish for someone. But not alas, for him.…

  He felt more frustrated than ever. Back in the winter, when he’d booked this Norwegian trip, the prospect of a few days on his own at the Vistasund Hotel had seemed inviting. A hotel in a delightful island setting, magnificent seascapes, wonderful smorgasbord, swimming and water-skiing, boats of every kind for the asking, dancing in the evenings—and plenty of girls. Some of them certainly willing. He’d counted on that. Back in the winter, it had been a warming thought … But now, in his changed circumstances, it hadn’t seemed safe. A holiday affair could have repercussions—and he had too much at stake to risk getting involved … So, for nearly a week, he’d had to eye the goods instead of handling them. Not that any of the girls had been particularly inspiring—but one or two had looked possible. It had been a tantalising experience, and an unfamiliar one for Hunt. Probably, he thought, he’d have done better to cancel the trip in the spring, and ask for his money back … Still, he’d only another two days to go. He ought to be able to resist temptation for two more days—even with that lovely dish around.

  The trouble was that he kept on running into the new girl, and each time he saw her it was like a high-voltage charge going through him.

  She was in the lounge with her parents when he went in for an aquavit before lunch. They were all drinking orange squash. Dad, at close range, was a tall, spare, greying man in his late fifties—distinguished-looking in an austere sort of way. All his features had a drawn-out look—his high, narrow forehead; his thin nose; his long upper lip, which gave his face a severe and disapproving expression even in repose. He was wearing a dark suit of an old-fashioned cut, complete with waistcoat, and looked more like a chapel sidesman than a holiday-maker. Mum was plump and pleasant-faced, with snowy white hair that might once have been chestnut too. A striking enough pair in their way—but Hunt couldn’t help feeling it must have surprised them to produce such a wonder girl.

  Mum, it appeared, was inclined to fuss. She was fussing now about the girl’s dress—a simple, summer affair in flowered blue linen. Hunt could see nothing wrong with it except that it revealed too little. Presently she started fussing about the funny eiderdowns she’d found on the beds, and wondering how they were going to get any sleep with no sheets or blankets to tuck in. She and Dad both had slight Midland accents. The girl had less of an accent—and less to say. She was, Hunt knew, aware of him. When she caught his eye, she smiled, a little wistfully. She looked as though she’d like to step out and have a bit of fun. “Watch it, boy!” Hunt told himself.

  He ran into her again at lunch as she surveyed, with the uncertainty of a newcomer, the magnificent “serve yourself” table that stretched almost the length of the dining-room. “What a lot of things to choose from!” she exclaimed to a woman next to her. “This is nothing,” the woman said. “At the last place I was at, we had forty-three different cold dishes alone!” Hunt moved in. “I’m an old hand,” he said, with a smile. “May I give you the lay-out …?” Courtesy and charm were his professional tools. He directed the girl to the fragrant hot dishes at one end of the table—the meat balls and fish balls and fried potatoes and stew; the cold sweets, plates, knives and forks at the other end; the fish dishes and hors d’oeuvres down one side of the board; the breads and cheeses down the other. “That fish in wine sauce is tasty,” he said, �
��and the rissoles in gravy are much better than they sound … I don’t advise the reindeer—it’s like gumboot.” The girl laughed, showing pretty teeth.

  He saw her again after lunch, though briefly. He was sitting at an umbrella-shaded table in the hotel grounds, drinking coffee and sipping a liqueur, when she came strolling by, flanked by her parents like a prisoner under guard. Dad had got hold of a coloured brochure and was reading aloud about various trips they could take together in the hotel launch. As they drew level, Hunt caught a little of their conversation. The girl said, “What I’d really like to do is go out in one of those little sailing boats.” Mum said, “Oh, I don’t think I’d do that, dear, they don’t look very safe to me.” The girl said, “Mum, they’re perfectly safe—they’re like the one Sally and I took out on the Nene last summer, and I managed all right then.” Mum said, “That was a river, dear, and this is almost like the sea.” Dad weighed in judiciously. “I’m told the wind gets up very quickly in these fiords …” And the voices faded.

  Hunt saw her once more that afternoon—out on the water. He was having his second swim of the day when she came rowing by, alone, in one of the hotel’s long, viking-type dinghies. Mum and Dad had evidently accepted that as a safe compromise—though they were watching her closely from deck chairs on the shore. The girl rowed well, Hunt saw. He also noticed that she had shapely arms, sun-tanned to a delicate gold, and thought how nice it would be if she were like that all over. She gave him a little smile of recognition as she passed. A charming smile, showing her dimples, but without self-consciousness, without coquetry. Just friendly … Hunt called out, “I’ll race you,” and went into a powerful crawl. For thirty yards he kept abreast of her. Then he laughed, and waved, and dropped back. It would be so easy to start something with her—and it was so tempting. But it really wouldn’t do.…

  There was the usual lively dance session after dinner. The dancing took place on the cleared floor of the dining-room, where there was space for fifty couples—a gleaming area of polished pine much mutilated by stiletto heels. There were records for everyone’s taste, and most of the guests joined in. Those who preferred to watch sat in the lounge, which was on a higher level and railed off, like a ship’s quarterdeck. It was there, Hunt noticed, that the new girl was sitting with her parents, hemmed in by people, inaccessible without disturbance. There was no “Keep Off ” sign, but the message was clear. It wasn’t the girl’s message, though—Hunt was sure of that. She hadn’t put on a dress of midnight blue velvet to sit with Mum and Dad all evening. He decided to try for one dance. He’d danced with almost all the available girls at one time or another, distributing his favours evenly—so why not with the redhead? He waited for a waltz—there was nothing like a waltz for close work. Then, with quiet assurance, he made his way through the lounge, bowed to the parents, and asked the girl if she would dance. She glanced at her father before getting up, as though seeking permission. Dad looked at Hunt for a moment, then gave an Olympian nod. Hunt led the girl down to the dance floor and steered her quickly and skilfully to the far end of the room, where they were masked by other dancers.

  “Having fun?” he asked her.

  “I am now” she said, smiling.

  Hunt looked down at her. She had a vivid mouth, barely touched with lipstick. Her hair smelt delicious. She danced with natural grace. Her body was firm, yet pliant. Her very simplicity was exciting. She was like a flower that hadn’t opened. A beauty unaware of her own attraction.

  “What’s your name?” Hunt asked.

  “Gwenda Nicholls.”

  “Gwenda …? M’m—I like that. It’s unusual … Mine’s Alan Hunt.”

  She nodded. “Have you been here long?”

  “About a week.”

  “Oh … Then I suppose you’ll be leaving soon.”

  “In a couple of days.”

  She was silent for a moment “It’s a lovely place, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty good, yes.”

  “It’s the loveliest place I’ve ever been in. All the colours, and the different lights—and everything so peaceful. I think it’s heaven.”

  “It’s certainly fun being on an island,” Hunt said. “You probably haven’t seen much of it yet … There are lots of little winding paths through the heather, most of them ending in rocky coves.”

  “How lovely—I’m dying to explore … It’s all so different from what I’m used to.”

  “What are you used to?”

  “Brickworks and chimneys, mostly. I don’t mean we live among them, but you can always see them … I live in Peterborough—Dad works in the Council offices … Have you ever been there?”

  “I think I drove through it once.”

  “That’s the best thing to do with it,” she said. “I hate all towns—I don’t know how people can bear them … If I ever get the chance I shall live in the country.”

  “What do you do in Peterborough?”

  She made a face. “I’m a shorthand typist.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Not much … I work in a solicitor’s office, and it’s rather dull. There’s just me and Miss Harris—she’s a middle-aged woman who’s been there donkey’s years—and we hardly see a soul.”

  “Why don’t you change to something else?”

  “Well, I have thought of it, but the solicitor’s a friend of Dad’s, and Mum likes it because the office isn’t too far away and I can go home for lunch … What do you do?”

  “I’m a salesman,” Hunt said.

  “What do you sell?”

  “I’ve sold practically everything in my time. It’s caravans, at the moment.”

  She nodded. “I should think you’d be rather a good salesman.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you’ve got the right sort of voice—quiet, and sort of coaxing.”

  He laughed. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “Can I coax you?”—but he thought better of it. No point in a neat gambit when there was no chance of a follow-up. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Anyway, I get by.”

  “You’re on your own here, aren’t you?” “Yes.”

  Gwenda glanced across at Mum and Dad.

  “I wish I was.”

  The music stopped. Hunt gave the girl’s body a slight squeeze, and released her. “Thank you,” he said. “That was most enjoyable.”

  He took her back to where her parents were sitting. Gwenda introduced him. He made polite conversation for a moment or two—about the hotel, the island, the trips. Then he asked to be excused.

  Well, that’s it, he told himself. That’s about the ration. It was a shame, because the girl had obviously taken to him—and she’d make a delicious snack. But all the signals were at danger. She was inexperienced, romantic, probably longing for a steady boy friend. Mum was probably looking for a son-in-law. Dad certainly wasn’t the man to see his daughter trifled with. Both were watchful. It just wouldn’t do. Prudence, boy, prudence! And maybe a cold shower … After all, there were lots of lovely women in the world—and in a few months, with luck, he’d be able to take his pick.…

  He had a couple of drinks in the bar and an interesting chat with a man from Leeds who said he’d won thirteen thousand pounds on the pools a year ago and had since turned it into eighteen thousand. Hunt was always fascinated by money and what you could do with it—especially money that hadn’t been earned by hard work. He talked and listened for half an hour, picking up several useful tips. Then he went upstairs to write a letter.

  His room, like all the single ones, was on the top floor of the building, at the back. It was small but comfortable, with a well-sprung bed, a writing-table, an easy-chair and plenty of reading-lamps. The daytime view from the window, over calm fiords and low, purple islands, was superb. After dark, a luminous glow from the water still gave a sense of space. Hunt opened the french doors and stepped out on to his little iron balcony, sniffing the fragrant air. The sky, he saw, had become overcast, but the night was
pleasantly mild. Quiet, too, except for the strains of music coming from the dining-room below. The dancing usually went on till after midnight, and the time was still only a little after ten.

  He was about to go back in and start his letter when a light clicked on in the room next door and a girl came out on to the neighbouring balcony. Even in the shadows, he recognised her at once. It was Gwenda Nicholls.

  “Well, hallo again,” he said. He didn’t have to raise his voice—the ends of the balconies were only a few feet apart. “I’d no idea we were neighbours.”

  “Nor had I,” she said. She didn’t look at all displeased.

  “You’ve left the dancing early.”

  “Mum was tired after the journey—she’s taken Dad off to bed.”

  “So you had to come to bed too?”

  She hesitated. “Well, in a way … They don’t really like me dancing. Especially if they’re not there to keep an eye on me.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “I’m afraid so. My parents are Baptists, you see—not the strictest sort but—well, old-fashioned about things … Dad’s very keen on temperance, and not playing games on Sundays—he’s always writing letters to the papers about it … He doesn’t actually stop me dancing, but he doesn’t really approve.”

  Hunt tut-tutted. “How old are you, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I was twenty last week.”

  “It’s fantastic. In this day and age.”

  “That’s what I think. I keep telling them I’m much too old to be treated like a child.”

  “Can’t you do anything about it? Talk them round?”

  “Well, I do try—we have terrible arguments at home … Rows, almost … The thing is, I’m really fond of them and I know they’re fond of me—so it’s difficult. They honestly think I still need looking after and protecting … But I get very fed up, always being asked where I’m going and what I’m going to do and who with and having to be in by ten o’clock and all the rest of the stupid rules … After all, most girls of my age do pretty well as they like, don’t they?”