‘Ah, Mrs Wilkins,’ said the manager, ‘this is PC Hobson and he’d like a word with you in private. I have to pop out for a few minutes so you can talk in here if you like.’
When he had gone, the officer cleared his throat, consulted a notebook and said, ‘Are you the wife of Mr Petroc Wilkins who lives at number eight, Farm Villas, Carston?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Julie hardly recognised her own voice, it sounded so thin and strained. ‘Please, what’s wrong? Has something happened to my husband?’
‘Not so far as I know, Madam. It appears there has been an incident at your house and as your husband isn’t available, Chief Inspector Holloway would be obliged if you could spare a short time to help him with his inquiries.’
Julie stared at him in horror. ‘An incident? Do you mean someone’s broken in?’ She had a sudden, nightmare vision of her beautiful, orderly home pillaged and desecrated by intruders.
The officer’s face was expressionless as he replied, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t any more information at the moment, but no doubt DCI Holloway will explain. It shouldn’t take long … I’ll drive you to your house and bring you back after you’ve spoken to him. Your boss has given permission,’ he added, as Julie hesitated.
‘All right,’ she said in a shaky whisper. The feeling of apprehension that she had felt on waking came flooding back and she began to tremble. ‘I’ll go and get my coat.’
The officer nodded. ‘I’ll wait for you by the staff entrance.’
The drive took less than ten minutes but to Julie, desperate to find out what was going on, it seemed interminable. When they reached the house she saw that Rocky’s car was missing, but another police car was parked outside and one or two curious neighbours were standing a short distance away, staring and whispering amongst themselves. She ignored them, scrambling out of the patrol car before PC Hobson had switched off the ignition and running up to the front door with her key in her hand, only to have it opened from inside by yet another uniformed officer, this time a woman.
‘Mrs Wilkins? I’m WPC Audrey Savage.’
‘What is it?’ Julie panted. ‘What’s happened?’
She glanced round the hall; everything seemed as usual except for a rug that appeared to have been kicked to one side. Instinctively, she bent to put it to rights, but the policewoman gently restrained her, saying, ‘Please don’t touch anything for the moment.’
‘Did someone break in? Is there much damage?’
‘If you would just come in here, Chief Inspector Holloway would like to ask you a few questions.’
Julie found herself being ushered into her own front-room; she looked wildly about her, ignoring for the moment the man wearing a raincoat over a grey suit who rose from the settee as she entered. A coffee table had been overturned, some of her precious ornaments lay on the floor, chairs had been pushed to one side and … horror of horrors … there was a patch of blood on the carpet. She let out a scream.
‘Rocky’s been hurt? Is it bad? Have they taken him to hospital?’
‘Sit down, Madam, and try not to alarm yourself.’ The man indicated a chair; mechanically, Julie obeyed. ‘So far as I know,’ he went on, ‘your husband hasn’t been seriously hurt, but we don’t know where he is and we hope you’ll be able to help us. It appears he left home in rather a hurry. Have you any idea where he might have gone?’
In her confusion, Julie barely understood a word. She stared dumbly at the detective; he had sandy hair and pale eyes, and like the officer sent to fetch her from work, his expression gave nothing away. Her agitated gaze moved back to the stain on the carpet; it seemed to be spreading before her eyes and she had a sudden urge to fetch water, huge quantities of water, to wash it away. If only she could do that, perhaps this would all turn out to be nothing but a hideous, fantastic dream …
‘Mrs Wilkins?’ The detective’s voice brought her back to reality. He repeated his question and she shook her head.
‘He never said he was going out,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t imagine this was a planned departure,’ said Holloway drily. ‘The fact is, we were called to the house by a member of the public who reported that an assault had taken place here.’
‘An assault? Are you saying someone attacked Rocky?’
‘Not exactly.’ The detective’s mouth curled in a faint, sardonic smile. Then his manner abruptly changed and he leaned forward, fixing Julie with a penetrating stare. ‘Has your husband ever mentioned a young woman called Hannah Rose?’
It was the question Julie had been dreading. Deep down, despite her frantic efforts to banish the thought, she had known from the beginning that there was some connection between this living nightmare and Rocky’s relationship with the dead girl. But he had sworn that he was not her killer; she believed him and had vowed to protect him. She swallowed hard, steeling herself to keep calm, to think carefully before she spoke so as not to say anything that might give him away. After a moment, she said, trying to sound natural, ‘Do you mean the girl they found in the freezer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, of course, we’ve talked about her. I mean, everyone’s been talking about it, haven’t they? Such a dreadful thing to happen.’
‘We have reason to believe that your husband knew her—’
‘No!’ This time, Julie almost shouted. ‘He never!’
‘—and that he took her with him on one of his trips to Eastern Europe,’ Holloway continued as if she had not spoken. ‘We also have information suggesting that her relatives hold him responsible for her death and are planning to carry out a revenge attack on him.’
‘Are you saying Rocky’s been kidnapped?’ Julie felt her self-control snapping; she sprang from her chair and clutched at Holloway, half hysterical with fear. ‘What will they do to him? You must find him … why aren’t you out looking for him?’
‘Please, Mrs Wilkins, try to keep calm and answer the Chief Inspector’s questions.’ It was the policewoman speaking now; her hand was on Julie’s shoulder, gently pressing her back into her chair. Her voice was soothing and reassuring.
Julie sank back and burst into tears. ‘Don’t let them hurt Rocky,’ she begged.
‘We have no reason to believe that these people have actually found your husband.’ The detective’s voice was brisk, almost abrasive. ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘our informant called on him today with the intention of warning him to be on his guard against such an attack. Unfortunately, he seems to have misread the lady’s intentions and she was forced to defend herself. With that.’ Holloway indicated the brass cat that Rocky had proudly brought home from one of his trips. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about the injury,’ he went on drily. ‘Cuts to the head usually bleed quite freely and it didn’t prevent him from making a quick getaway the minute the lady told him she had mentioned her fears to the police.’
It was all getting too complicated. Julie covered her face with her hands. ‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered. ‘Why would he run away? He hasn’t anything to hide.’
‘That remains to be seen. We have the registration number of his car and my officers are on the look-out for him. No doubt he’ll be picked up soon and brought in for questioning; meanwhile I’d like your permission to search this house. Of course, if you object, I can easily obtain a warrant …’
And so the nightmare continued.
At five o’clock, as the world of Julie Wilkins was being dismantled before her eyes, Melissa Craig drove her car into the garage, locked it and trudged wearily towards her front door. She had just reached it when a cheery voice behind her called, ‘Yoohoo!’ and she turned to see Iris, clad in a baggy sweater and corduroy trousers, scrambling over the stile from the field opposite the cottages.
‘Been blackberrying,’ she announced, indicating the basket of glossy fruit in her hand. ‘Fancied a crumble for supper. Plenty of apples there.’ She waved a hand in the general direction of the laden tree in her garden. ‘How about coming to share?’
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br /> Melissa hesitated. It would be an enormous relief to unload the day’s adventures into a sympathetic ear. She would almost certainly receive a scolding for yet again poking her nose into police business and putting herself at risk, but one thing Iris could be relied on to do was to treat anything she was told as confidential. The same could not, however, be said of Iris’s fiancé. On the contrary, his regard for both Melissa and Ken was such that he would feel duty bound – as he would see it, in the interests of her safety – to say something about this latest escapade.
‘Well, what about it?’ said Iris impatiently. ‘Ken’s away, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, till tomorrow. What about Jack?’
‘In London, seeing lawyers about the house in France. Staying overnight.’
‘Then … yes, I’d love to come.’
‘Fine. About six-thirty.’
‘Lovely. That gives me time for a good long soak. I’m all in.’
‘It shows.’ Iris gave Melissa a searching look. ‘Been up to something you don’t want Sir to know about?’
‘You don’t miss much, do you?’
Iris gave a sardonic cackle. ‘Can’t wait to hear about it.’ She fished her latchkey from her pocket and let herself into her cottage. Thankfully, Melissa did the same.
Before going upstairs to run her bath, she checked her answering machine for messages. There was one, from Ken Harris. ‘Just to let you know the job’s going okay,’ he said. ‘It should be tied up in the morning and I hope to be back in the office by about three o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be round in the evening about six.’
‘Oh will you?’ she muttered. It would be lovely to see him again, of course, but it would also be nice if now and then he were to add something like, ‘if that’s okay with you.’
‘We’re not cohabiting yet, Sir,’ she informed the machine as she stabbed the reset button. ‘You’re taking a little too much for granted these days.’
Supper with Iris was the usual demonstration that vegetarian food, prepared by a genuine enthusiast, could be as delicious as anything containing meat. When she had finished her portion of blackberry and apple crumble, Melissa sat back with a sigh of contentment, the day’s adventures temporarily forgotten. ‘Iris, that was a superb meal,’ she declared.
‘More?’ Iris gestured with the serving spoon.
‘Thanks, but I couldn’t manage another scrap.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it. When are you going to convert your ex-copper to healthy living?’
Melissa gave a resigned chuckle. ‘Not a hope. I did learn something the other day that’ll gladden your heart, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘Joe Martin – my agent. He’s gone on a fitness spree … joined a health club and forsworn red meat.’
‘Good for him. Always knew he had good sense.’ Iris gave Melissa a keen glance, her grey eyes serious. ‘Seen him lately?’
‘Not for a while. We need to have a talk soon about what I’m going to do next. I’ve made up my mind that the book I’m working on now will be the last Nathan Latimer novel.’
‘Going to kill off the great detective? Surely not!’
‘No, just give him honourable retirement. I want to do something different.’
‘How does Ken feel about it?’
‘Ken? I don’t discuss my books with him … except to check police procedure and that sort of thing. He doesn’t even read them,’ Melissa added, a shade wistfully.
Iris said nothing. She began stacking plates and the two of them cleared the table. They settled in front of the sitting-room fire with mugs of coffee, Melissa in an armchair and Iris in her favourite position, cross-legged on the rug with Binkie blissfully purring on her lap.
‘Right,’ said Iris. ‘Going to tell how you came by those marks?’ She gave Melissa a quizzical glance. ‘Have to think of something good to tell Ken.’
Melissa fingered her neck where Rocky had gripped her. The same problem had exercised her mind while she was having her bath. ‘I’ll say a beginner at a self-defence class got carried away and grabbed me too hard,’ she said.
‘What self-defence class? You don’t go to one.’
‘I’m thinking of enrolling tomorrow.’
‘He’ll never wear it.’
Melissa gave a deep sigh. It was true; there was going to be another clash between her and Ken that, like so many others, would end in stalemate.
‘So what really happened?’
Iris listened in silence while Melissa recounted the chain of events that had taken her to number eight, Farm Villas, Carston and her near-fatal encounter with the man she believed to be the truck driver who had taken Hannah Rose away from her family. ‘It didn’t enter my head that he might be the killer,’ she finished, ‘but even if he isn’t, he’s certainly got something to hide. I wonder if he’s been picked up yet.’
‘Let’s find out.’ Iris rose from the floor in a characteristically athletic movement and switched on the radio.
They were just in time to catch the announcer on the local news bulletin saying, ‘Here is an item which has just come in. This afternoon, a woman was subjected to a serious assault in a house at Carston. Shortly afterwards, a man believed to be long-distance lorry driver Petroc ‘Rocky’ Wilkins fled from the house and drove away in a dark blue BMW. A man who attempted to detain him was also attacked and slightly injured. Police are anxious to question Wilkins in connection with this and other serious matters and are appealing to members of the public to report any sightings of the man or the car. They stress that he has a history of violence and should not be approached.’
After giving the registration number of the BMW, the announcer read the closing headlines. Iris leaned forward and switched off the set. ‘Let’s hope they nab him soon,’ she said.
Seventeen
Somewhat to her surprise, Melissa awoke on Thursday morning from a peaceful and unbroken night’s sleep. She got up and went downstairs to brew a pot of tea; while waiting for the kettle to boil, she scrutinised her neck in the hall mirror and was relieved to find that the bruises made by Rocky’s fingers had already begun to fade. The weather was still too warm for high-necked sweaters, but a scarf worn as an accessory with a shirt and her hair allowed to hang loose round her face for a day or two should be sufficient to conceal those tell-tale marks. Provided, of course, that there was no question of removing the camouflage in Ken’s presence; she would have to avoid love-making for a day or two. That would be no bad thing – it wouldn’t do him any harm to be reminded that she wasn’t there for the taking whenever he pleased.
This train of thought led to the recollection that she had promised to let him know by Saturday whether she was ready to agree to his proposal for the two of them to set up house together after having her and Iris’s cottages knocked into one. Saturday was only two days away and she was no nearer coming to a decision. Without warning, after many years when she had hardly given a thought to the father who had cast her out at the time of her greatest need, one of his many-times-repeated maxims echoed in her head: ‘When in doubt, don’t,’ he used to say. To a rebellious teenager this had always seemed nothing but an excuse to avoid risking the slightest inconvenience or disturbance to himself. Once she had plucked up the courage to tell him so, quoting ‘He who hesitates is lost’ and ‘Faint heart never won fair lady’ back at him, and been banished to bed without supper for her pains. But as she grew older she learned that it was not always wise to ignore persistent doubts.
She knew in her heart that Iris had been right in saying that Ken Harris would not wait for ever for a commitment from her, and that to lose him altogether would leave a void that would be hard to fill. On the other side of the equation was the undeniable fact that in recent months his attitude towards her had become steadily more possessive and claustrophobic. He was fond of reminding her that he was motivated only by love and consideration for her safety and welfare, just as her father had claimed to be. Once again her thoughts flew back to her childhood fr
ustrations, her mother’s gentle assurances that, ‘He loves you really, darling, he’s only thinking of your own good,’ and her own tearful, angry response, ‘No he’s not, he’s just thinking of his own convenience.’ What her father had wanted was a docile, dutiful daughter who would stay at home and share with her mother the domestic role which he considered appropriate for all women. The day that she informed him of her intention to enter university after leaving school, the angry scene that followed and her refusal to back down, stood out in her memory as the first victory in her long and sometimes bitter fight for independence. So far she had firmly resisted any attempt to deprive her of that independence; now she had to decide whether the time had come for at least a partial surrender.
The whistle of the boiling kettle jerked her mind back to the present. While waiting for her tea to brew she opened the kitchen window and leaned out, savouring the freshness of the morning air. After an unsettled spell, the weather had turned mild again, but everywhere there were unmistakable signs of autumn. A fine mist lay over the valley like a damp veil, shrouding the trees and hedgerows and filtering much of the warmth from the early sun. Pearls of dew glistened on the grass and clung to the lacy network of spiders’ webs that festooned the hawthorn hedge.
She closed the window, shivering slightly although not from cold. The comparison with lace brought back to mind the tragic fate of Hannah Rose. As she poured out her tea and sat at the table drinking it, unanswered questions began lining up in her head like the checklists she made a habit of preparing when unravelling the intricacies of her plots. At the top of the list was the obvious one: Did Rocky Wilkins kill Hannah? There was no doubt that he had known her and it now seemed certain that he had taken the photograph that stood on the chest of drawers in Rachel’s caravan and processed it himself in his attic darkroom. Was that evidence still there, and was it indeed a murderer’s guilt that made him panic at the mention of the police? Had the police searched the darkroom and if so, what had they found there? Did they even know of its existence? It was unlikely that they had questioned Penny, and from what Penny had said about Julie Wilkins, she was far too devoted a wife to volunteer any information that might endanger her husband.
Murder in Langley Woods Page 16