‘I’m here in connection with the murder of a girl called Julie Holmes,’ he said, and watched carefully for her reaction. As he had expected, she showed nothing but faint bewilderment. One eyebrow arched.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I really fail to see …’
‘It will no doubt become apparent to you,’ he said crisply. ‘Perhaps you would begin by telling me of your movements last Tuesday evening.’
She shifted her body slightly, a movement of impatience. ‘Oh really, Inspector!’
‘Please,’ he cut in again. ‘I can assure you I have a reason for asking.’ He was beginning to enjoy himself.
She raised one hand slightly, in a gesture of concession. ‘Very well. I’ll go and fetch my diary.’
She disappeared into an adjoining room, returned a few moments later with a large green leather-bound desk diary. She sat down, leafed through its pages in silence. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing of any use here. You can see for yourself.’ And she handed him the diary, open, with an ‘I’ve-nothing-to-hide’ gesture.
Tuesday May 6 was blank. Thanet nodded acknowledgement and handed it back to her. ‘You really have no recollection? It is, after all, only five days ago.’
She shrugged, impatient again. ‘As there’s nothing in my diary, I assume that it must have been a perfectly ordinary day.’
‘Which means?’
‘That I would have worked in the shop until five-thirty, then come home and spent the evening here.’
‘The shop?’
‘My boutique in Sturrenden. TOPS.’
Thanet had a quick mental image of the bag he had found in Julie Holme’s wardrobe. Purple, with TOPS in gold lettering on the side. Another connection … A thought struck him. Could he have been wrong? Could Julie have come face to face with the murderer not at the Private View, but in Alice Giddy’s boutique? If so he must now tread warily indeed.
‘Which is why I’m here,’ he said, with a flash of inspiration. ‘Mrs Holmes was a customer of yours. We found one of the carrier bags from your shop in her wardrobe.’
‘Really?’ Alice Giddy said, with indifference. ‘Is that so surprising? I should think there’d be one of our carrier bags in the wardrobe of many of the women in Sturrenden – or at any rate in the wardrobes of those who can afford us.’ And, for the first time, a glint of wry amusement showed briefly in her eyes. ‘I must say I’m surprised that an inspector, no less, should turn up on my doorstep to follow up so tenuous a link.’
‘You don’t remember the girl?’
‘What was she like?’
Thanet told her, but at the end of his description Alice Giddy shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. We have so many customers … and in any case I might well have been working in the office above the shop when she came in, in which case my assistant would have served her.’
‘Perhaps I could have your assistant’s address,’ Thanet said, keeping up the fiction.
‘By all means, though I really can’t see much point.’ She dictated it to him and then leaned forward, preparatory to rising. ‘And now, if that’s all, Inspector …”
‘Not quite, I’m afraid. You still haven’t told me how you spent last Tuesday evening.’ Even at the risk of looking ridiculous he had to persist.
She did not sit back again, but remained poised on the very edge of the settee. ‘I told you, I can’t remember. I assume I spent the evening here, as usual.’
‘Alone?’
‘Alone.’
Thanet gave up. Clearly, there was no point in continuing. He stood up. ‘Very well.’
Her eyes, looking up at him, mocked him, dared him to go on, to thank her for her help in the conventional way.
‘If you remember later on, perhaps you could contact me.’ He took out his card and laid it on the glass-topped table.
‘By all means,’ she said, uncurling herself. They stood for a brief moment facing each other across the low table, both of them paying tribute to a worthy adversary, before she turned, led the way to the door and showed him out.
In the car Thanet was thoughtful. Had he been right to switch his strategy like that when he had learnt that Alice was the owner of TOPS? He wasn’t sure if it had been good tactics or a simple loss of nerve. It had suddenly seemed so much more likely that Alice Giddy was the murderer and if so he wanted not only more time to think but to keep as many cards up his sleeve as possible. As it was she was free to think that the police, at a loss how to proceed, were simply casting their net wildly in the hope of coming up with a useful lead. But she was no fool and if she were guilty and he had so much as mentioned the Dacre Exhibition she would have realised at once that he was on to the past link between Julie and herself.
Thanet began to feel depressed. Alice Giddy had impressed him. She would be a tricky adversary indeed. If she were guilty he could not imagine her admitting it even if the evidence were incontrovertible.
And, when it came down to it, what evidence was there, at the moment?
None. None whatsoever.
13
Fortunately there was no time for the depression to take too firm a hold upon him. The journey back into town took only ten minutes and he had to put the interview with Alice Giddy firmly behind him and free his mind for his intended visit to the Pococks.
Little Mole Avenue was on the far side of Sturrenden and he decided to call in at the hospital on the way, to check up on Dr Plummer. The doctor’s stand-in had, he found, been telling the truth. Gerald Plummer had been admitted to the hospital on May 2, four days before the murder. On May 5, after two days of tests, he had undergone an operation, and was now convalescent. He had, moreover, been under constant supervision, having refused to go into a private room on the grounds that what was good enough for his patients ought to be good enough for him. It was out of the question that on May 6 he had been either fit enough or free to have been in Gladstone Road, committing a murder.
Thanet left, satisfied.
As he swung out of the hospital car park and into the Sunday quiet of the streets he reviewed what he knew of the Pococks. They had been slightly older than the rest of their little group at the time of Annabel’s murder, Pocock being thirty and his wife a year younger, and they had been the only married couple involved. Pocock at that time had, according to Low, been a philanderer and Edna the complaisant (or ignorant) wife. She had also been that eternally tragic figure, the motherly woman who is denied children. What would they be like now? How would the years have treated them? Was Pocock now an ageing Don Juan, and would his wife at last have found fulfilment in motherhood?
The answer to this last question was obvious the moment Thanet pulled up outside the Pococks’ house. This was in a sedate neighbourhood of large Victorian houses set in sizable gardens. Most of them, Thanet thought, would probably now be divided up into flats, having proved too expensive to run. The Laurels stood out from its neighbours by virtue of its cluttered garden and the noise which emanated from it. Thanet, standing at the gate, counted five children of varying ages. A teenage boy was working on an upturned bicycle in front of the garage, two little girls of about ten were sitting on the front doorstep with dolls on their laps and a scatter of tiny dolls’ clothes spread around them, a boy of around seven was riding about on a tricycle and a toddler of indeterminate sex was sitting in a sandpit, banging an upturned bucket with a spade. It looked as though Edna Pocock had more than made up for her earlier misfortunes.
The little girls, absorbed in their game, did not notice him until he was almost upon them and then they looked up. They were so close in age that they must either be friends or non-identical twins, Thanet thought. One was as fair as the other was dark. The dark one looked up unsmilingly at him as the fair one jumped up, beaming.
‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Are your parents in?’
They exchanged a solemn look before the fair girl nodded. ‘They’re round the back,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you.’
Thanet felt himself to be the focus of many eyes
as he followed his guide. The teenager had straightened up, spanner in hand and the other boy had brought his tricycle to a halt. Only the toddler remained oblivious of the visitor, completely absorbed in his sand pies. There was, Thanet felt, something wary, almost hostile in this silent scrutiny. He smiled at the seven-year-old, raised his hand in a salute to the teenager, but neither responded. Thanet shrugged inwardly. If they didn’t want to be friendly there was nothing he could do about it. He turned his attention to the girl beside him. As if aware of his discomfort she gave him an encouraging smile.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Melanie. Melly for short.’
Thanet did not believe in talking down to children. ‘What did I do wrong?’ he said.
She glanced back over her shoulder, shrugged. ‘Nothing. It’s not you, really. They’re always like that.’
Following her glance Thanet was slightly surprised to see that all four other children had now left what they were doing and were trailing behind, at a distance. Curiosity? He didn’t know, but once again he had that curious impression of wariness, mistrust.
They were now about to turn the corner of the house into the back garden and Melly put up her hand. ‘Could you wait here a minute?’ she said.
Thanet stopped, glanced back again. The other children had stopped too. Their solemn, watchful gaze reminded him very much of natives scrutinising the first white man to come their way. Of course, he thought, that was it. They were afraid. But why?
Before he could begin to think about this, however, Melly returned. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Come on.’
By now Thanet was intensely curious and he approached the small, sheltered terrace in the angle of the house with interest. After this build-up the two people who advanced to meet him seemed disappointingly nondescript. The man was of medium height with crinkled, greying hair, a drooping moustache and a solid, well-muscled frame. The woman was shorter than he and plump, with the tiny hands and feet of the type. She was wearing a shapeless dress in indeterminate colours and her plain features were not enhanced by untidy brown hair pulled back into a straggling bun. Not a woman who cared for appearances, Thanet thought. Then, as she smiled in welcome he realised that she was not nondescript at all. The warmth of her personality was something very special indeed.
As he introduced himself the smile faded, however, and her eyes went beyond him to where the children stood silently watching, some yards away.
‘It’s … it’s not anything to do with the kids? she said anxiously.
Thanet was puzzled. ‘No, of course not. Why should it be?’
She sighed then, a tiny exhalation of relief, and raised her hand. ‘It’s OK kids, nothing to do with you,’ she called to them, and Thanet watched astonished as the little group erupted into noisy relief and ran, whooping and calling, back around the corner of the house.
Roger Pocock was setting up another folding deckchair and his wife waved Thanet into it. ‘They’re not ours,’ she explained. ‘They’re all foster kids and they’re always scared stiff of being taken away. When anyone turns up unexpectedly they always think the worst. They’ve all had a bad time and they’re used to being moved around from pillar to post at the drop of a hat.’
‘I see,’ Thanet said, and he did. He looked at Edna Pocock with new respect. ‘It must be very difficult work.’
She smiled, that warm, transforming smile again. ‘Oh it is. But we enjoy it, don’t we, Rodge?’
Her husband nodded and both men followed her gaze to the corner of the house, where the younger boy had just come into sight on his tricycle. ‘You wouldn’t believe the difference it makes to them, once they settle down and begin to feel part of the family,’ she said. ‘Anyway,’ and she settled herself more comfortably in her chair, ‘you haven’t come here to talk about them, so …?’
They both looked at him with mild curiosity, the embodiment of people with easy consciences.
Thanet was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. The generosity of this couple made his enquiries seem almost obscene. How many people, he wondered, would be willing to fill their lives with the battered survivors of other people’s tragic mistakes? Certainly no one could do so who did not genuinely love children and have their welfare at heart. No wonder those poor kids had treated his appearance with such suspicion. Nevertheless he was on a murder enquiry and questions had to be asked. He decided to be honest about how he felt.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I came here to ask some very unpleasant questions. Now that I’ve seen you, seen the children … well, frankly I find it difficult to put them.’
‘No need to feel like that,’ Edna Pocock said reassuringly. ‘It’s nothing to do with the kids, you say, and I really can’t think Rodge and me have done anything criminal, so go ahead. Ask away.’
A crash, a scream, a rising crescendo of sobs interrupted the conversation. In a flash she was out of her chair, hurrying towards the corner of the house. There was a babble of raised voices and she returned, carrying the younger boy whose knee was bleeding badly. The other children trooped behind her, Melly leading the toddler by the hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ Edna Pocock said. ‘I’ll have to go in and see to this.’
Thanet nodded his understanding and she went into the house, the other children following. If one of their number was threatened, it seemed, they habitually closed ranks, drawing comfort from proximity.
Roger Pocock caught Thanet’s eye, shrugged. ‘They’re good kids,’ he said. ‘Can we get your questions over while my wife’s inside?’
If they did, Thanet guessed, Pocock would tell some white lies when she came back, to reassure her. And why not? he asked himself. Wouldn’t he try to protect Joan in the same way, in similar circumstances? He made up his mind. ‘It’s about last Tuesday evening,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I can’t explain, but I would be grateful if you could tell me what you and your wife were doing.’
Pocock frowned. ‘You’re asking us for alibis?’
‘In a way. It’s just that there are some loose ends in a case I’m working on, and they’ve got to be tidied away. You and your wife might be able to help.’ It was lame, and he knew it. Pocock, he could tell, knew it too. He hoped the man wouldn’t press for details.
Pocock looked at him in silence for a few moments, clearly debating whether or not to do so. Then he shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t see that either of us was doing anything we shouldn’t have been. My wife always goes to evening classes on Tuesday, and I babysit for her.’
‘And this was what happened last Tuesday?’
‘Yes, I’m sure of it. She’s never missed a class yet, unless she’s ill or one of the children can’t be left. She’s doing pottery.’
Thanet steeled himself and said, ‘Is there anyone who can vouch for either of you?’
Pocock’s expression hardened. ‘My wife’s classmates, I suppose. And the kids for me, if they have to. But I don’t want them dragged into this if I can help it.’
‘No,’ Thanet said. And then, feeling a heel, ‘Is there any way we could do it without upsetting them?’
Pocock scowled. ‘I don’t know. If we have to, I suppose.’
The sound of voices announced that the others were returning.
‘Leave it to me,’ Pocock said hurriedly.
The children all crowded around as the boy exhibited his bandaged knee. Edna Pocock sat down and flapped her hand at them. ‘Go on now,’ she said. ‘Off you go.’ She turned to Thanet as they began reluctantly to drift away. ‘This one hour on Sunday afternoons is the only time we keep for ourselves. It does them good, makes them think of someone else for a change.’
Pocock had been watching the children thoughtfully and now he suddenly called after them. ‘Hey kids, come back a minute, will you?’ He waited until they had come flocking back and then said, ‘Mr Thanet here and me have been having an argument. He says no one can ever remember properly what they were doing five days ago. Now I say you can. So let’s see if we c
an prove him wrong, shall we?’
Four pairs of eyes swivelled to Thanet, one of them wary. Pocock’s ploy had clearly not fooled the older boy. The toddler, of course, had not understood either the question or its significance. Seeing his opportunity for an unexpected cuddle he simply climbed up on to Edna’s lap and burrowed his face into her ample breasts.
‘’Course we can,’ said Melly scornfully. Then, turning hesitantly to Pocock, ‘What day was that, Dad?’
‘Tuesday,’ said Pocock. ‘Say Tuesday evening.’
Edna Pocock glanced questioningly at her husband and he shook his head slightly in warning. Leave it, the gesture said.
The children were silent, thinking back.
‘Aw, this is stupid,’ said the older boy suddenly. He took a pack of chewing gum from his pocket and distributed sticks as if they were reassurance. Then he leaned against the wall of the house, nonchalantly. “Course we can remember,’ he said deliberately, watching Thanet, challenging him. ‘Mum was at evening class and we were all here. Dad, Melly, Sally and me watched The Pacemakers.’
‘That’s right, Dad, we did,’ It was Melly’s turn now, her face alight with triumph. ‘Don’t you remember, Dad? You said Sally and me could watch till nine so long as we promised that if we came to a bit you didn’t think we ought to see we’d close our eyes. And there was that bit about the operation and you said don’t look, and we didn’t.’
‘I should hope not!’ said Edna Pocock. ‘So that’s what you get up to while I’m out, is it?’ But she was not really angry, only pretending to be, as Thanet and the children could tell by her affectionate glance at Pocock. ‘All right, kids, that’s enough now. I think we’ve proved your Dad’s point. Off you go.’
They went noisily this time, pleased at their triumphant refutal of Thanet’s so-called theory.
The Night She Died Page 15