Murderer's Fen

by Andrew Garve

  Everything seemed in good order when he got back to the site on the second Saturday in August. He was greeted by Taylor, his holiday deputy from head office, a young man with a black beard so carefully shaped and pruned that it looked like an experiment in topiary. Taylor was in high good humour, having sold three vans in ten days. But he was also quite ready to leave. “Dead-and-alive hole, I call this,” he said. “Specially at night.… I’d go bonkers if I had to stay long.”

  “You’ve got to have inner resources,” Hunt said, grinning. “Philosophical disposition—love of nature in the raw.… Like me …” He was feeling pretty cheerful himself. “Anyway, how were things? Any problems?”

  “Not really,” Taylor said. “Joe hurt his leg, but he’s getting better.” Joe was a villager with a Land-Rover, who sometimes delivered vans for the firm. “We’ve had two more applications for boat berths for the winter—the letters are on the file. The bottled gas came, and the paraffin’s coming next week. Ipswich sent a few stores—they’re in the shed. Oh, and I fixed up with a bloke named Ellis to see you at eleven o’ clock on Monday morning—he’s interested in the Midgets, and sounds a good prospect. That’s about all.”

  Hunt nodded. “You seem to have coped all right.” He glanced through the correspondence and accounts. “Did you order the milk and groceries I asked for?”

  “Yes, they’re in the van.”

  “Good … You can push off, then, if you like.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Hunt … Did you have a good holiday?”

  “A splendid holiday,” Hunt said, with a reminiscent gleam.

  He watched Taylor drive away on his motor-bike. Then he set off on a round of the site. It was a large area—perhaps a quarter of a mile long by a hundred yards wide—with a shallow S-bend in the middle. It had once been an arable field and the surface, now grassed down, was still a little irregular. The office and shed were close together near the entrance. From there, four rows of new caravans stretched away down the centre, suitably spaced. Hunt’s van was the last on the right and was set a little apart from the others, close to the water. On the north boundary of the site, a screen of dark conifers gave protection and privacy. On the south side was the lode, with the fen beyond. The lode looked like a natural river, though according to the experts it had been dug centuries ago for drainage purposes and for the local transport of peat and sedge. It was twenty yards wide, with willow-lined banks, and it flowed at a barely perceptible pace to join the rest of the fen waterways network lower down.

  Even on this high-season Saturday, the place was very quiet. Only two of the long line of moored boats appeared to be occupied for the week-end. Hunt paused briefly to exchange greetings with their respective owners, and to eye a bikini-clad figure on a cabin top. A boy asked him if he had a woolly cap in the store, and he said he’d look. Continuing along the bank towards his van, he noticed that the mahogany rowing dinghy he sometimes used to cross the lode had more water in it than usual. There must have been a lot of rain in his absence—though the ground looked dry enough now. He stopped by his car, a cream MG sports to which he was very attached, and removed the polythene cover. The car appeared to have taken no harm. He looked inside his van, found it stuffy, and opened a couple of windows. He was about to put his groceries away when the telephone bell rang. in the office—a specially loud one he’d had fitted so that he could hear it anywhere on the site. He walked back and answered a query from Ipswich.

  Then he rang up Susan.

  He met her that evening by arrangement at the Crown Hotel, Newmarket, where for some weeks she had been working “for fun” as a receptionist. Her greeting in the foyer as she came off duty was deceptively casual—she had no taste for public demonstrations. “Let’s go to Hayes Corner,” she said. They drove, in their separate cars and at a dangerously high speed, to the quiet, wooded spot on the way to Susan’s home which they’d often used as a necking place. There, Hunt joined her in her Austin Healey, and they twined around each other in passionate but innocent reunion, kissing and murmuring endearments. Hunt never attempted anything more with Susan. Apart from the fact that he didn’t much want to, he had his image to think of. The image of a considerate, reliable, thoroughly decent bloke whose passions would remain well under control until the parson gave the “off.” If Susan wanted more, as he guessed she did, she had only to name the date.

  Susan Ainger was twenty-two. She was a tall girl, with nondescriptcoloured hair, a jolly laugh, a plain face and almost no figure. She made the best of herself, wearing clothes that were both expensive and attractive, and having her hair done regularly in Cambridge, but no one would ever have called her an eyeful. She was moderately intelligent, but her academic knowledge was minuscule. She had gained little from her exclusive boarding school education except social know-how and an accent that fell pleasantly on the ear.

  She was an only child, and rather a spoiled one. Strong-minded and independent by nature, she had been allowed to do pretty much as she liked. What she had mainly liked, until now, had been physical and extrovert—driving and dancing, galloping on the Heath, swimming and tennis, and generally having a good time with young companions who regarded her as a good pal. Recently, her interests had become more mature. She was fundamentally a warm-hearted and affectionate girl with normal instincts, and she wanted to love a man and be loved by him, to make a home and have a family. She knew she was no beauty, and she’d wondered sometimes if men would ever regard her as anything but just a good pal. Then she’d met Alan Hunt—handsome, debonair, charming—and soon, miraculously, asking her to marry him. She’d responded to his fervour with warmth and gratitude. Her feeling for him now was the strongest emotion she had ever known.

  Chatting freely, they exchanged their news. Both of them were lively talkers. Hunt, as he always did with Susan, made a special effort to be interesting and amusing. It didn’t seem likely that at this stage she’d get bored with him and change her mind about marriage, but he didn’t believe in relaxing the pressure till he’d reached the post. He told her more about his Norwegian holiday, picking out the oddities that had struck him, running the place down a little since she hadn’t been there to enjoy it with him. A lovely country, he said, but you got boiled potatoes with everything, and people hardly ever smiled, and there were no pubs—just men sitting alone at separate tables in dark-panelled restaurants, sipping pots of beer in silence. He produced, as a present for her and to amuse her, one of the grotesque little trolls the Norwegians made such a feature of in their shops, and said with a grin that it reminded him of his boss.

  Susan, in turn, told him. about her rally escapade, when she’d had trouble with a police car in a quiet village at midnight; and of an even more exciting episode when her mare, Lady, had got out of the paddock. “There was a weak spot in the hedge,” she said, “and I suppose there was better grass outside. Anyway, she walked through into the garden and all over the lawns, and the ground was so soft after the rain, her hoof marks were inches deep. Keller had to go round and patch every hole separately, and do you know, there were two hundred and thirty of them!—it took him days. Daddy was absolutely furious—honestly, I thought he was going to explode. Now he says he’s going to put Lady on a ball and chain.… !”

  Hunt laughed appreciatively. He was always appreciative when Susan told her light-hearted stories—just as he was always attentive when she was serious. It required a little effort, since he was quite indifferent to her, but it paid off.

  Companionably, he held and fondled her left hand as they talked. The ring on it, with its solitaire diamond, had cost him far more than he could afford, but he regarded it as bread upon the waters which would return to him soon. The question was, how soon?

  “When are we going to get married?” he asked her, as their flow of chatter momentarily dried up.

  She looked up at him, smiling. “As far as I’m concerned,” she said, “as soon as you like.”

  “Darling … !” He bent and kissed her. “What about yo
ur parents?”

  “Well, Mummy still says we haven’t known each other long enough, but she’s coming round … She’ll need time to make the arrangements, that’s all. She’ll want to do everything properly.”

  “Of course she will.… That’s all the more reason to get something fixed. How about raising it with them again this evening?”

  “All right,” Susan said. “Let’s.”

  The Aingers lived in an imposing, neo-Georgian house standing in extensive grounds on the outskirts of the village of Lingford, three miles from Newmarket. It had a sweeping drive-in, a beautifully laid-out garden with some fine old trees, a paddock at the back, and—tidily tucked away behind a macrocarpa hedge—a cottage for a man and wife. There was a servant problem of sorts, but it hadn’t been acute since a couple named Keller had been imported from Austria.

  Susan put her car in the garage beside her father’s Silver Wraith and her mother’s Mini, and Hunt parked his in the drive. Then they walked over to where both parents were sitting in the shade of a great copper beech. Mrs. Ainger was a tall, thin woman of fifty with a quiet, genteel voice and a faded prettiness. Hunt greeted her with a kiss on the cheek—his practice since his formal engagement to Susan—and asked her how she was. “Much better, thank you, Alan,” she said.

  Hunt extended his hand to Ainger. “Hallo, sir.” Ainger took it cordially. “Have a good holiday, son?”

  “Not too bad,” Hunt said. “It would have been better if Susan had been there, of course.”

  “You’ll have enough of her before you’ve finished,” Ainger said with a chuckle.

  Henry Ainger was no ordinary man. In appearance he was short and stocky, with powerful shoulders and a tough, craggy face etched with the lines of struggle. He had started life with few assets but his own combative personality. Now, at fifty-eight, he was a minor property tycoon. He had wide interests, splendid health and a tremendous zest for living. With his own family he was usually tolerant and amiable, a dynamo temporarily at rest. In the world of business he was outspoken, ruthless and formidable.

  He had not lightly accepted Alan Hunt as his prospective son-in-law. On the contrary, he had weighed him with the care that the special circumstances demanded. He had even had inquiries made about him. He had turned up nothing to cause anxiety, nothing to his discredit. He had checked up on his family background and found it satisfactory. He had looked into some of his past jobs, discussed his work and interests with him, and concluded that he was an able and intelligent fellow. A bit lazy, maybe, a bit too easygoing—but marriage and responsibility would probably change that. Anyway, very ambitious men didn’t necessarily make the best husbands. On the personal side, he had no serious criticisms. His wife might be right in thinking he wasn’t quite a gentleman—but then neither was Ainger himself. The fellow was presentable, well-mannered, excellent company—and, most important of all, he appeared to be genuinely devoted to Susan. She could certainly have done a lot worse. Ainger’s affection for his only daughter didn’t blind him to the fact that she wasn’t every man’s cup of tea. It was unfortunate, but as far as looks were concerned she’d taken after him rather than Jane. She was a nice girl, but she lacked her mother’s sweetness and gentle appeal … In any case, she’d made up her mind about Alan—and Ainger knew that Susan’s mind, in its youthful way, was as tough as his own … Having, as he thought, sized the situation up, it was characteristic of him that he accepted it wholeheartedly. Alan would soon be joining the family, and that was that.…

  He glanced at his watch. “Seven o’clock, eh? Time to bring out the martinis.” He set off towards the house.

  Susan called after him, “Sherry for me, please,” and he waved an acknowledgment. Hunt fetched two more deck chairs from the loggia and placed them under the tree. The sun was still pleasantly warm, the newly-mown lawn fragrant, the surroundings delightful. Gracious living, he thought. Wonderful. There was nothing like affluence.…

  Mrs. Ainger said, “Do tell me about your holiday, Alan,”—and once more he began to talk about Norway.

  Ainger was back in a few minutes with a silver cocktail shaker, a sherry decanter, and four glasses, on a tray. He poured the drinks and passed them round. “Well—it’s nice that we’re all together again,” he said, raising his glass to the company.

  Susan took a sip of sherry. “Alan and I would like to get married,” she announced.

  Mrs. Ainger looked a bit startled. “When, dear?”

  “We thought before Christmas.”

  “So soon.…? Isn’t that rushing things a little?”

  “Oh, Mummy, of course it’s not. It’s four months.… It’ll seem ages, anyway.”

  “Well, Susan, it’s your decision, of course—yours and Alan’s—but you will have had rather a short engagement.…”

  “How long were you and Daddy engaged?”

  Mrs. Ainger glanced at her husband. Ainger gave a loud guffaw. “No comment,” he said.

  “There you are, he daren’t say.… I’ll bet it was about a fortnight.”

  “I think they should fix it, Jane,” Ainger said. “They know how they feel—what’s the point of hanging about?”

  For a moment, Mrs. Ainger said nothing. Then she smiled at Susan. “Very well, dear.… Then we’d better start planning.”

  The next few weeks were among the longest in Hunt’s life. To him, they were the gap between the cup and the lip, and he could hardly wait to close it. But he showed nothing of his impatience—except privately to Susan, who was gratified by his eagerness. With her parents, he remained calm, considerate and amenable. He fell in readily with every suggestion they made, as long as Susan agreed. He gave them a potted life history of the best man he had in mind, a former schoolfellow named Roger Lawson. He interested himself in the list of wedding guests and added enough names of his own, but not too many. He had few available relatives, his own parents being dead and his only brother in Canada, but there were a couple of uncles, and an aunt he thought he could rustle up, and he had plenty of friends. His side of the aisle would be respectably filled.

  Among the important matters that had to be settled was the question of his job, since it was clear that he couldn’t go on living in a caravan and working at Ocken after he was married. He discussed the position with Susan, and then with his firm, who were very accommodating. They had, they said, a high regard for him, and would be happy to give him a post in the sales department at their head office in Ipswich. Hunt reported this to the Aingers one evening in September. Susan, who didn’t much mind where she started her married life as long as it was with Alan, thought Ipswich would be fine. Mrs. Ainger agreed that it wasn’t too far away from Newmarket and was sure they’d be able to find a nice house there. Ainger listened to the discussion, but said nothing.

  Later in the evening, he took Hunt aside. “This business of your job, son,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it.… I’d like to see you getting into something more substantial—something that would stretch your abilities a bit more.… Now I could probably find you something in London, where you’d be at the centre of things. A job with real prospects … What do you say?”

  Hunt hesitated. “That’s good of you, sir … I appreciate it …”

  “But …?”

  “Well, I think my firm has prospects, too … Of course, I realise that by your standards it’s pretty small stuff—but caravans are getting more popular every year, and the firm’s doing extremely well. It nearly doubled its profits last year—and it jacked up its dividend by five per cent.…”

  “Yes, I know,” Ainger said, smiling. “I checked.”

  “So it’s going ahead.”

  “And you think you’ll go ahead with it?”

  “I think there’s a good chance. They seem to like me—and I hear they’ll be needing a new sales manager soon. The present one’s over sixty and due for retirement.… I’d like to give it a try, anyway.”

  Ainger still looked doubtful. “My guess is it’ll never be
anything more than a small provincial company. Not under its present management.… There won’t be much scope there.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see,” Hunt said. “Maybe later on I’ll take you up on your offer, if it still stands. But not now.… After all, the firm has just shown its confidence in me—so I feel I owe them a bit of loyalty. Fair’s fair.… And to be honest, sir, I’m rather keen to start my married life as an independent bloke—even if things don’t work out quite so well financially. Matter of pride, I suppose.… I hope you understand.”

  Ainger gave his shoulder a friendly pat. “You bet I understand—in your place I’m sure I’d feel the same.… All right, we’ll forget it. Come and join me in a glass of port.”

  By the first Saturday in October, the season at the caravan site was coming to an end. Trade inquiries would go on, but it was unlikely there would be many more private customers until the spring. Most of the boats had been laid up for the winter. Hunt felt less tied to the place than he had been.

  That morning at Ocken was a splendid one. After two nights of heavy rain the weather had suddenly become warm and golden and the forecasters were prophesying a spell of Indian summer ahead. Hunt was in the highest spirits. The wedding day was now only eight weeks off. In two months’ time he’d be honeymooning in Marrakesh, a safely married man not to be put asunder. After that, things would begin to move. He’d be cautious at first, of course. He’d play his hand with subtlety and restraint. There’d be no crude grabbing—just affectionate erosion. A joint bank account would be the thing—showing trust in each other. Naturally, he’d keep in with Ainger. Probably he would take up the old boy’s offer. Once safely married, there’d be no further reason why he shouldn’t—the gesture of independence would have served its purpose. He and Susan would move to London—maybe buy a little mews house in Mayfair, with space underneath for an Aston Martin or an Alfa Romeo. It would be easier for him to organise his bits of fun on the quiet in London.… Then they’d travel, of course—always in the greatest comfort … After all, it was up to him to see that Susan wasn’t deprived of the standard of life to which she was accustomed. He had no doubt that she’d fall in with any plan he cared to suggest. After a few weeks of marriage, she’d be eating out of his hand.… As he contemplated the future, he could hardly contain his excitement.…