Jigsaw

by Anthea Fraser

  Seeing the two women had talked themselves out, Lois gently broached another topic, and a less fraught discussion ended the visit.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rona said at the door. ‘It was good of you to arrange this.’

  Lois shrugged slightly and pulled a face. ‘Good luck tomorrow.’

  Rona nodded. ‘I might well need it.’

  ‘Hugh’s back in town,’ Rona told Max on the phone that evening. ‘Lindsey’s just phoned in quite a state about it.’

  ‘Well, I have to say she brought it on herself,’ Max replied crisply. ‘She’s been dangling him like a fish for the last three months.’

  ‘She says he was with another woman.’

  ‘Is the phrase significant?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Rona snapped. ‘A woman was with him, is that better?’

  ‘Makes little difference to me, either way. Is this prickliness on Lindsey’s behalf, or your own?’

  Rona drew a breath. ‘Sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘I’ve a lot to think about at the moment, and to be honest I could have done without a hysterical sister bending my ear for twenty minutes. She’s convinced that from now on, she’ll see him every time she leaves the house.’

  ‘What did she expect, when she’s been supplying him with creature comforts every weekend?’

  There was a pause, then Rona said, ‘Is it too late to take back my apology?’

  He laughed. ‘Pax! So tell me, what’s on your mind to the extent that you grudge your sister twenty minutes of your time?’

  The wife of a murder victim I had coffee with this morning. Tomorrow’s appointment with the murderer himself.

  ‘Oh,’ she hedged, ‘nothing specific. Everyone’s upset about the old lady, and the funeral’s hanging over us.’

  ‘I’m still not sure why you’re staying for it, since you only met her the once.’

  Rona crossed her fingers. ‘It’s to support Nuala, really,’ she said ambivalently. ‘People will be coming back here afterwards, so I offered to help.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry about not seeing you tomorrow, love.’

  ‘Doubtless I’ll survive,’ he said.

  As the prison was at the far end of town, Rona took the car. It was impossible to park anywhere near the high walls, and it took her over ten minutes to find a space in a multi-storey. Alan Spencer would think she’d chickened out.

  The security check was as thorough as Beth had warned, added to which a sniffer dog was led past the visitors, no doubt checking for what the authorities called illegal substances. They were then directed to sliding electronic gates giving access to stairs that led up to the Visits Hall, while CCTV cameras covered every inch of their progress.

  At the entrance to the hall a prison officer asked for her name and whom she’d come to see, and directed her to table five. The hall was fairly large and furnished with some thirty bench-like tables, each with three yellow chairs on one side and a green one, on which the cameras were fixed, on the other. The prisoners, already waiting on their green chairs, wore orange tabards over jeans and blue and white striped shirts.

  Alan Spencer didn’t raise his head as Rona sat down opposite him, but his eyes flicked up, raking her face. His own was gaunt and hollow-cheeked, his hazel eyes seeming to have sunk into his skull. Rona could appreciate his wife’s anxiety.

  ‘Mr Spencer? I’m Rona Parish. Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

  He straightened then, meeting her eyes squarely. ‘Let me say at once that I’ve only done so to placate Beth. I’ve nothing new to tell you. I apologize for wasting your time, but you’re free to go now.’

  He had a singularly pleasant speaking voice, though its tone was bitter.

  Rona leaned forward, then, seeing a passing prison officer pause, hastily sat back again. ‘Your wife told you I’m writing some articles?’

  ‘You’ll be hard pressed to find anything new to say about me. I was a seven-day wonder at the time.’

  ‘I mean that I’m not here as an undercover lawyer, or an investigator into rough justice.’

  ‘So don’t get my hopes up?’

  She saw to her surprise that he was smiling, if wryly.

  ‘That’s about it. Having said which, quite a few people still believe you’re innocent.’

  ‘They’ll have a job proving it.’

  ‘Did you kill Barry Pollard, Mr Spencer?’

  She saw she’d startled him, and the half-smile faded. He held her eyes for a minute, then said quietly, ‘No, I did not. Oh –’ he made an impatient gesture with his hand – ‘I wanted to, all right, when Charlotte died. I could have strangled him with my bare hands.’ The words were all the more shocking for being delivered in so calm and measured a tone. ‘But good God, by the time his trial had come up and he’d served his time, it was getting on for two years. You can’t keep anger at white heat for that long. The grieving goes on, heaven knows, but by that time we were resigned to it.’

  ‘Then have you any idea who might have done it?’

  ‘Obviously not, or I’d have shouted it from the rooftops.’

  ‘Tell me why you went to Sunningdean that evening.’

  He sighed, leaning back in his chair. ‘Didn’t Beth explain? I received this letter, allegedly from Pollard. We’d been told he was being released, but I’d refused to let it get to me. The letter came as a shock though, I can tell you. It said something about Lottie still being on his conscience and he’d like to apologize in person.’

  He ran a hand over his red-brown hair. ‘Well, I’d no intention of stirring all that up again, so I chucked it. But it lodged in the back of my mind. By all accounts Pollard was a decent enough chap, and much had been made of his grief and remorse. Also, he’d hinted at doing something stupid if I wouldn’t see him.

  ‘So I thought, why the hell not, if it helps him? It might even help me, too, forgiveness being good for the soul. I did wonder why he’d not made it earlier in the evening, but I didn’t attach any significance to it. Beth didn’t know about the letter – I knew it would upset her, so I told her some lads from work were going for a drink and I’d be late back. Sunningdean’s a twenty-minute drive away.’

  He stared down at his hands, folded on the table in front of him, and Rona wondered what grim scene he was reliving. ‘I didn’t see him at first; he was huddled against the wall, midway between two lamp posts, so the light was dim. I didn’t even know it was him; I just thought some drunk had fallen over. So I said something like, ‘Need a hand, mate?’ and bent down to help him up. But he was a dead weight – literally – and then, of course, I saw the blood. All over my sleeve, in fact. There was a phone box on the corner, so I hared over and dialled nine-nine-nine. And the rest,’ he added ironically, ‘is history.’

  There was a brief silence while Rona processed the information, lining it up with what Beth had told her. There were no significant differences. She said, ‘It wasn’t Pollard who sent the letter, was it?’

  ‘No. Someone wanted me at the scene.’

  ‘Then he’d have had a letter too, supposedly from you?’

  Spencer shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t have been necessary; it came out at the trial that he’d been drinking at that pub every night since his release. Furthermore, he always left at ten twenty, to catch the bus home.’

  ‘What about that night?’

  ‘On the dot, as usual.’

  Rona said slowly, ‘So the murderer, who knew his timetable, would have time to dispose of him before you arrived on cue.’

  ‘Exactly. How come you can see that, when the authorities couldn’t?’

  ‘And this selfsame murderer,’ Rona continued, ‘was someone who was able to gain access to your kitchen without arousing suspicion, remove a knife, and later, having wiped it more or less clean, hide it in your garage, where it was bound to be found.’

  ‘Beggars belief, doesn’t it?’

  ‘There’s nobody at all that you can think of?

  ‘Nobody.’

  Rona looked at hi
m consideringly. ‘Could I ask you a very personal question?’

  He gave a snort of laughter. ‘You’ve already asked if I’m a murderer. You can’t get much more personal than that.’

  ‘A confidential one, then, strictly between you and me?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’

  She said carefully, ‘Were you by any chance having an affair around that time?’

  It was clear the question came as a shock. His eyes went momentarily blank and his face stiffened, but the flush that stained his cheeks was her answer.

  After a tense minute, he said levelly, ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I’m not thinking, so much as asking.’

  ‘Then what made you ask?’

  ‘It’s – possible that you were seen.’

  He gave a deep sigh. ‘All right, if we’re playing the truth game and it’s going no further, I was, as it happens. Can you tell me why it’s any of your business?’

  ‘She was married, too?’

  ‘Yes; still is.’

  ‘Could her husband have found out?’

  He gave a shout of laughter, and those at the next table turned to stare at him. ‘Sorry, but you’re way off track there. No, he did not find out; I’d stake my life on it.’

  ‘You may have already done so,’ Rona said.

  He stared at her for a moment. ‘Look, even if he did – and I know he didn’t – why go after poor old Pollard? Mine was the throat to cut, which would have been much simpler all round.’

  Rona shook her head. ‘I can’t help you on that one.’ She paused. ‘Still confidentially, are you prepared to tell me who you were involved with?’

  ‘Positively, absolutely and definitely, no. Anyway, it had been over for some time by then. Look,’ he went on, his voice changing, ‘I know it would be a scoop for you to prove my innocence, but – and I’m serious now – I don’t want you even to try. You could be putting yourself in danger, and as far as I’m concerned, I’ve accepted my lot. I’m a model prisoner; with luck, my sentence will be reduced. I can sit it out.’

  There wasn’t much more to say, and Rona reluctantly rose to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Goodbye, Ms Parish. Take care.’

  There was a man sitting on the bench at the bus stop, reading a newspaper. Rona, her mind still on Alan Spencer, had almost passed him when she stopped and looked more closely.

  ‘Hello, chameleon,’ she said, sitting down beside him.

  He grinned, removed his spectacles and folded the paper.

  ‘Why all the disguises?’ she asked curiously. ‘Anyone would think you were on the run.’

  ‘If someone did happen to be following you,’ Dave pointed out, ‘he sure as hell would notice if the same bloke was always in the vicinity. So – how did it go?’ He nodded towards the prison across the road.

  ‘He didn’t do it, Dave.’

  ‘You know that for a fact, do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said seriously. ‘He couldn’t have; I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Well, even if you’re right, there’s not much you can do about it.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘No, but there’s something you could do for me. I shan’t be going out this evening so you’d officially be off-duty, but I’d be awfully grateful if you could drive out to the Cat and Fiddle at Sunningdean and see what you can suss out.’

  ‘I can, sure, but won’t the trail be a bit cold by now?’

  ‘Yes, but it was a major event for the pub regulars. If you say something like, “Didn’t a murder take place around here?” I bet they’ll be more than willing to give you their two-penn’orth.’

  ‘OK; no skin off my nose which pub I drink at.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘Normally, I’d be setting off for home about now.’

  ‘What time’s the funeral?’

  ‘Eleven. Nuala’s inviting people back to the house, so I said I’d give her a hand. Miss Rosebury was well known and respected; I think there’ll be a large turnout.’

  ‘Well, watch yourself. I’ll be at the church, see you back to the house, and then hang around till you leave for home.’

  Rona nodded absently. ‘I just wish I knew for certain that the interview didn’t lead to her death,’ she said.

  Her mobile rang just as she turned into her parking place, and she flipped it open. It was Beth Spencer.

  ‘Miss Parish? You saw him?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  Rona hesitated. ‘Mrs Spencer, it doesn’t make much difference what I think, but for what it’s worth I’m sure he didn’t do it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There really is nothing I can do, you know.’

  ‘Couldn’t you make a few general enquiries? No one would think anything of it – you’re a journalist, after all.’

  Briefly, she considered telling Beth of her proposed enquiries at the pub, but decided against it. It might give her false hope.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she promised.

  As she rang off, Rona reflected on Spencer’s admission to an affair. Beth wouldn’t learn of it from her, but would she be irreparably hurt if she did find out? Rona thought not; it was in the past, after all, and Beth admitted their marriage had been under a strain. At least his time in prison seemed to have strengthened it, and as Spencer had implied, the affair could have no relevance to the murder: had it led to any consequences, Spencer himself would have been the victim.

  Thank God this murderer’s safely behind bars, Max had said, right at the start. But it was beginning to look as though he mightn’t be, after all.

  Tom lay next to his wife in the large double bed, but he had never felt farther away from her. Though wide awake, he barely heard the rhythmic little puffs she emitted, prelude to the soft snores that had punctuated his nights for the last forty years. For he was pleasurably engaged in recycling his day with Catherine – her smile, her laugh, the things they’d talked about.

  They’d been relaxed with each other from the start, able to let silences develop without the need to fill them. Frequently, they’d started to say the same thing, and broken off with a laugh. Her knowledge of art had reawakened his own love of it, dormant now for many years, and to his delight brought back remembered snippets that were new to her. During the whole magical day, they’d said nothing that her son and his daughters could not have heard, but he was acutely aware of a growing attraction. Whether or not she’d registered it, he had no idea. Either way, these could be dangerous waters, but for the moment he didn’t care; he felt rejuvenated, invigorated, revitalized – just when he’d thought he was about to be thrown on the scrap heap.

  Another startling fact had emerged: he’d realized for the first time that his marriage hadn’t been happy for years, and the knowledge came as a shock. The creeping disenchantment had been so gradual that he’d accepted it as normal, but it was a long time indeed since he’d looked forward to seeing his wife, enjoyed her company, even – apart from the twice-daily peck on the cheek – kissed her. He had grown used to her discontented grumbles and her criticism of their daughters, always trying, for the sake of peace, to smooth them over, lighten her mood. It was this, he now saw, that, more than lack of male companionship or empty, stretching days, had led to his dreading retirement. Only when he compared the way he felt with Catherine did he appreciate how dull and pointless his exist ence had become.

  They had parted at Marsborough station, where they’d both left their cars.

  ‘Thank you so much for today,’ he had said. ‘I hope we can do it again some time.’

  She’d smiled at him. ‘I hope so, too,’ she’d said.

  Was that standard politeness, or had she meant it? He intended to find out, and soon.

  Rona was suddenly, totally, awake, every nerve stretched taut as a wire. She lay motionless, eyes straining into the darkness. Something had woken her. What was it?

  And into the thick,
throbbing silence it came again, a faint rattle and a squeak, this time followed by a draught of air that passed over her face. She lay unmoving, scarcely breathing, deafened by her heartbeats. Her bedroom door was opening. Someone was coming into the room.

  The board that always creaked when she stood on it creaked now, pinpointing his position, though her sleep-dimmed eyes could make out only a shadowy shape. Rapidly she ran through the objects to hand should he approach the bed. They were not of much comfort: her clock, a glass of water, her library book. With luck, the water might shock him long enough for her to make a run for it.

  But, to her untold relief, he was not approaching the bed. Instead, he’d moved to the far side of the room and she temporarily lost his outline, till she realized he’d knelt down behind the table where, she remembered, a small door some three feet high led to the roof space.

  The darkness paled slightly – the shielded beam of a torch, she deduced – then came the unmistakable sound of the wooden door being lifted aside. A faint shuffling followed, a gentle thud and then another. Then a scraping of wood against wood as the door was fitted back into place. The shadowy figure rose, became man-sized again, and moved soundlessly back towards the door.

  As he pulled it open and the blackness leached into grey, Rona could see he was now carrying something, presumably retrieved from his hidey-hole. In one lightning movement, her arm snaked out for the light switch and the room flooded with brilliance, temporarily blinding both her and the intruder, who froze in the doorway. As her vision cleared, she found herself staring across the room at the startled face of Clive Banks. He was holding a small, cheap suitcase in each hand.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded ringingly, emboldened by the light.