Murder in Mind

by Veronica Heley

  ‘I almost feel sorry for Evan Hooper.’

  Another shrug. ‘A bad picker.’

  ‘You knew his name has been linked with my daughter’s?’

  ‘He introduced us when we met by chance at the golf club. She was dining with him and I was with a customer. Also, I’ve heard the gossip.’

  ‘You think that will end in tears, too?’

  A wry face. A searching look at Ellie to see if she really wanted an honest opinion. A shrug. ‘I think she’s tough and knows exactly what she’s doing. If she’s pregnant with a boy . . . Well, the best of luck to her.’

  Ellie winced.

  Betsey raised her eyebrows. ‘You asked.’

  Ellie nodded. Sighed. ‘Yes. Diana is carrying Evan’s child; she’s had a scan and it’s a boy.’

  Betsey nodded, but had the good sense not to comment. ‘So, what would you like me to do for you? I gather you’ve got a load of visitors expected, but don’t know how to fit them in. Did Maria tell you that I could rent you whatever extra furniture and furnishings you might require?’

  ‘Bless you. There’s a spare bedroom upstairs which I’m pinning my hopes on, but it’s full of junk, and oh . . . I started to make some notes on a spare piece of paper. Now . . . where? Ah, here it is. We’ll have a quick tour downstairs first, because I have a problem with the curtains in the dining room. One got torn and needs to be repaired. And yes, I know it won’t look as good as new. Also, the room is a trifle gloomy. Perhaps it’s time to think of having a new set made?’

  Ellie led the way to the dining room. ‘We have business meetings in here once a week but will have to use it for its original purpose when our guests come, because we can’t all fit round the table in the kitchen, except perhaps for breakfast.’

  Betsey snapped her briefcase open. ‘I’ll measure the existing curtains. I may have something that might do for you, a set made up for someone else. You could rent them for the duration of the visit and then put up the old ones again if you wish.’ She got out her tape measure and made notes.

  Ellie led the way out. ‘Now, after the dining room, the first room down the corridor is Thomas’s study, not to be touched on pain of death.’ She threw open doors as they went along, so that Betsey could see in. ‘Opposite is my office. And the room at the end of the corridor is the library.’

  Betsey was appreciative. ‘Nice big room. Good light.’

  ‘Yes, but somehow we never get round to using it. That’s all there is downstairs.’ Ellie led the way back to the hall and up the stairs to the first floor. ‘I’ll show you the bedrooms and let you decide how to fit everyone in. We’ll start with the bedroom over the kitchen, which has a bathroom attached. Our housekeeper used to sleep there. She didn’t want anything changed, liked it as it was, but it seems very tired and dull to me. She’s moved downstairs now . . .’

  As they descended the stairs half an hour later Thomas came out of his study, struggling into an ancient but much-loved anorak. He said, ‘Hello,’ to Betsey, and to Ellie, ‘Ready, then?’

  Ellie couldn’t think what he meant.

  ‘You can’t have forgotten that we promised to watch Frank playing in his football match? Diana can’t come, of course.’

  Ellie had forgotten. Did she have to go? Oh dear. She supposed she must. Diana wouldn’t be going; she never did. Especially on Saturdays. ‘Just let me . . . Is it raining again? Where did I put my heavier shoes? Oh, so sorry, Betsey. Our grandchild is playing in his first big football match and—’

  ‘I know what it’s like.’ Laughing. ‘Look, if you’ll let me stay on a while, I’d like to go round again on my own and take some more measurements.’

  ‘Our housekeeper, Rose, is around somewhere if you need anything.’

  ‘Will do. I’ll ring you on Monday morning if I’ve got any queries, and I’ll let you have my suggestions within a couple of days.’

  Thomas hustled Ellie into her heavy raincoat. ‘Boots, not shoes. Wellington boots. An umbrella. Now, if you can’t remember the offside rule—?’

  ‘I understood it perfectly when you showed me using mugs as players and the salt and pepper pots being the goalposts, but—’

  ‘Rose has made us a flask of coffee. So . . . off we go?’

  Saturday afternoon

  After the match, Stewart took a muddy and tired but ecstatic little boy home for a bath and a late lunch, while Thomas and Ellie retired to the Carvery in the Avenue for massive helpings of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with as many vegetables as they could fit on their plates.

  Thomas had almost lost his voice from shouting encouragement to the winning team, which made Ellie worry that he wouldn’t be able to take the service at a neighbouring church next morning. At least there was nothing wrong with his appetite.

  It was well after three when Thomas and Ellie returned home to find a message on the answerphone to the effect that DC Milburn was calling round at two o’clock. Well, they’d missed that, hadn’t they?

  As they shed their wet clothes Rose bustled to and fro, getting some tea on the table. ‘I told that policewoman you might be late but she came again at three, and I suppose she’ll be back again any minute.’

  Ellie groaned, sitting down to ease off her wellington boots. ‘Can you make some honey and lemon for Thomas? He had such a good time shouting for Frank and his team that he’s lost his voice.’

  The doorbell went. It was still raining, but Ms Milburn – unlike Thomas and Ellie – looked bright and perky as she shook out her umbrella and left it in the porch. ‘At last. I couldn’t wait till Monday. You’ve got the picture for me?’

  Of course; the picture of the clown. Ellie pushed her fingers back through her hair. Where had she put it? ‘Mm. Caroline Topping brought it round. She’s going away, half-term at her little boy’s school, though it doesn’t seem to be half-term for everybody. If only the schools would get the holidays to coincide, it would be a lot easier for parents, wouldn’t it? Especially if there is more than one child and they’re at different schools. Come on in. Have a cuppa. Rose, another cup for our friend?’

  Thomas went after Rose, attempting, in a hoarse voice, to give her a rundown of the match.

  Ellie found some soft slippers and put them on before leading the DC into the sitting room. ‘Take a seat. Now where did I put it?’ She gazed distractedly around. ‘I was in my chair by the fireplace. Caroline sat over there, on the settee.’

  The room looked neat and tidy. Rose must have been in while they were out, to tidy up and renew the chrysanthemums in the vase on the table by the window.

  The picture of the clown wasn’t immediately apparent. Ellie went over to the bureau. ‘I left it here. I’m sure I did.’

  Rose came in with two mugs of tea. Nice and hot. Wonderful.

  Ms Milburn was fidgeting. ‘It’s so important, I thought that even if it was the weekend, I’d come and get it. I told Ears . . . that is, I mean—’

  ‘Your boss, yes. What is his real name, anyway? I really must write it down. Now, I had the picture in my hand when I phoned you this morning, didn’t I? That would be in the hall.’ She looked. ‘It’s not there now. I’ll ask Rose if she’s seen it.’

  ‘It is rather important.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ellie went out to the kitchen. Thomas had disappeared, and Rose was liquidizing leftover vegetables. ‘Rose!’ She had to shout to make herself heard. ‘Rose!’

  Rose stopped the liquidizer, which was making a noise like a cement mixer. ‘What?’

  ‘Have you seen a picture of a clown anywhere?’

  ‘A clown? Like in a circus? No. In the newspaper, was it?’

  ‘Separate. Not from the paper.’

  Rose shook her head and switched the liquidizer on again. ‘Making soup for supper. Cold nights. Nothing like it.’

  ‘Have you—?’

  Rose switched the liquidizer off again. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Have you thrown away any papers from the sitting room?’

&nbs
p; Rose shook her head and started the liquidizer again.

  Ellie retired, defeated. Back in the sitting room, she began to take the pile of newspapers apart, shaking out each supplement, leafing through the magazine.

  Ms Milburn fidgeted. ‘You haven’t lost it?’

  ‘No, of course not. It was here, on the bureau.’ Ellie finished looking through the pile. ‘I’ll ask Thomas if he’s seen it.’

  Thomas was in his study, stabbing at his keyboard, grumbling at the computer in a voice which was fast fading away.

  ‘Thomas, have you seen a piece of paper with a picture of a clown on it?’

  He shook his head, concentrating on his work.

  Ellie threw up her hands in despair. How to tell Ms Milburn? She went along the corridor to her office. Had she by any chance left it there? But no, she hadn’t been to her office since the previous morning, had she? Anyway, she could see at a glance that the picture of the clown hadn’t been laid down on top of the usual pile of mail on her desk.

  She’d have to confess. And did.

  Ms Milburn paled. ‘That’s . . . too bad. I haven’t been able to track down everyone who was at the play centre yet. The weekend, you know. If I can’t convince Ears . . . He wants to write it off as a prank that went wrong, that some student perhaps wanted to make a few quid as a children’s entertainer, but when it went wrong . . . No, it was meant, I’m sure it was.’

  Ellie thought so, too. ‘Mrs Topping will be back in a week’s time. We can get another print then.’

  ‘If she hasn’t deleted it from her camera in the meantime.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. I can’t think what’s happened to it.’

  Ms Milburn was restless. She went to the window. Rain was sheeting down outside. ‘The boss says I’m imagining things. He says that it’s all a coincidence, and that I’m pushing myself forward, trying to make out I’m a better detective than . . . Well, you know how he can go on.’

  Ellie dreaded to think where this was going. Had they got on to Diana’s involvement already?

  ‘The thing is,’ said Ms Milburn, ‘there was only one set of fingerprints on the speedometer.’

  Ellie’s brain clicked over slowly. ‘You said that Angelika walked into the gym, found the treadmill working overtime. She turned the speedometer down, switched the machine off and only then saw the body. So her prints should be on the speedometer and the on/off switch, overlaying those of her stepdaughter, who’d presumably switched it on and turned the speedo up high. So when you say that the only fingerprints on the speedometer were Angelika’s, are you suggesting . . .? I’m not quite with you.’ Ellie didn’t want to face what this might mean.

  Ms Milburn rammed her point home. ‘It wasn’t easy to get prints from the on/off switch, because it’s small, but yes; there were smudged prints around and underneath Angelika’s, showing her stepdaughter had turned the machine on, and that Angelika had turned it off. But the speedometer was very clean, with only one set of prints on it . . . Angelika’s. If Fiona had turned the speedometer up too high, surely her prints ought to have been visible, even if smudged, under those of Angelika?’

  ‘Perhaps a cleaner . . .?’

  Ms Milburn gave Ellie a look.

  Ellie shook her head. ‘Someone wiped the speedometer after it had been turned it up high. Not Fiona. And not Angelika.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like. Also, the pathologist has found a bruise on Fiona’s left buttock, consistent with her being kicked just before she died. We think someone helped her on her way to her death.’

  Ellie thought: Diana. And then: no, not Diana. She’d bash someone over the head, but not adjust a speedometer to run too fast because . . . because . . . adjusting the speedo wouldn’t necessarily lead to Fiona’s death, and Diana wouldn’t leave anything to chance, if she did decide to commit murder. She might perhaps have lashed out with a cricket bat to Fiona’s rear, if one had been handy. Mm, yes. Perhaps.

  ‘You think someone else was there, someone who tampered with the speedometer, perhaps for fun? When the prank went wrong, they wiped the speedometer clean and scarpered?’

  ‘I could accept one prank that went wrong. But two?’ Ms Milburn shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, do you?’

  SIX

  Ellie said, ‘I see what you mean. If it’s a prankster targeting the family, then he’s caused two deaths with his silly nonsense and has to be stopped. But if he intended murder, then it’s much more serious.’

  Ms Milburn threw herself into a chair. ‘I thought perhaps a student might have been playing around—’

  ‘Yes, I’d got as far as that, too.’

  ‘It would hold up as a theory in the case of the toddler, but—’

  ‘Not for Fiona. Someone knew her. Knew how to get into the house, and into the gym—’

  ‘Or perhaps followed her there? The conservatory-cum-gym is at the back but accessible from the garden either by walking around the house on a gravel path or by going through the garage, which isn’t always locked and shut. Angelika was out in her car that day and so was Evan, so the garage doors might well have been left open. I rang this morning and asked about that, but they can’t remember, don’t think it important.’

  ‘They still maintain that Fiona’s death was an accident?’

  Ms Milburn nodded. ‘The child’s, too. They claim someone was playing the part of a clown and poisoned their little one in error. They blame the play centre and the au pair, especially as she’s gone missing.’

  ‘She’s fled back to Poland?’

  ‘We assume so, as she’s not to be found where she’s supposed to be. We’re checking the airlines as we speak, but she may have got a lift in a friend’s car going by ferry and road, in which case there’s very little hope of tracing her departure. I did warn her to stay put, but I suppose she thought the Hoopers wouldn’t pursue a case against her if she disappeared.’

  Ellie gave Ms Milburn a look. In her book Evan Hooper could be vindictive enough for anything.

  ‘Evan Hooper is going to make an official complaint on Monday alleging that I ought to have placed the au pair under arrest, and that I have been culpable in letting her slip out of the country.’

  ‘They don’t see that the two “incidents” are connected? Two down and . . . how many of the family to go? Doesn’t it seem most likely to you that someone is targeting the Hooper family?’

  ‘That’s my gut feeling, yes; but feelings aren’t evidence. That’s why finding that photograph of the clown is so important.’

  Ellie raked her fingers back through her hair and held on to her head with both hands. ‘I can’t think where it’s gone.’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory. Tell me exactly what the picture showed.’

  ‘Yes, at least I can do that.’ She closed her eyes, visualizing the greyish print, and talked it through. ‘It doesn’t show him—’

  ‘Or her?’

  ‘Caroline Topping said that it was a man, going by the way he walked. I think she’d have known if it had been a woman. The picture doesn’t show his feet but, judging by the way he towered over the children, he was tall. Thin, because his neck was thin. A white face with huge, smiling, red lips. Big eyes and long eyelashes. A ginger wig which came right down to the eyes. I think it was a mask and wig, all in one.

  ‘A bright red coat, padded or stiffened, which stood out from his body. Black trousers, baggy. White gloves. He held a china plate with the biscuits on in one hand and the strings of the balloons in the other. Did you see any of the balloons yourself?’

  ‘A dead end. You can pick up a packet of them anywhere, in stationers, toy shops. They weren’t helium balloons. Just the ordinary kind you blow up for kids’ parties.’

  ‘What about the plate? A thick china plate. I wonder where he got it. It’s not the sort you see for sale in shops nowadays. It’s the sort of plate my mother used to stand plants on if she ran out of proper containers. I’m thinking soup kitchens, church suppers. It’s the sort of plate you
find at the back of a cupboard which you’ve kept because it might come in useful, except that you never have had a use for it. We used to get plates like that dropped in to the charity shop in the Avenue, sometimes. I wonder if that’s where he got it.’

  ‘A young man setting up in a flat or a bed-sitter might find such plates provided by his landlord.’

  ‘True. How about the biscuits?’

  A gesture of frustration. ‘They’d all been eaten before anyone realized anything was wrong.’

  ‘The boy who noticed the polished black shoes might be able to tell you what make they were. I mean, he could say if they were foil-wrapped or loose on a plate; Waitrose or Tesco.’

  ‘I started to work down the list given me by the play centre this morning, but hardly anyone was at home.’

  ‘It’s half-term. Try again on Monday.’

  ‘Meanwhile . . .?’

  There was silence in the room, except for the ticking of the central heating as it warmed the bones of the old house . . . and the susurrus of Midge the cat, as he pushed his way into the room and made for the hearth rug.

  ‘Here, kitty,’ said Ms Milburn, who really knew better than to try to divert Midge.

  He gave her a look of disdain and turned his golden eyes on Ellie, who interpreted the command correctly by switching on the gas log fire so that he could stretch out in front of it. And purr.

  ‘Oh, to be a cat inside a warm house,’ said Ms Milburn.

  Ellie stroked the fur on Midge’s back with the toe of her soft shoe. ‘A well-fed cat. He’s only just eaten, judging by the fishy smell he’s brought in with him.’

  Midge began on his toilette. Thoroughly. Both women watched his progress from paw to ear, to mask and back again.

  Ms Milburn said, ‘Things could go either way. If there’s no more incidents, my guess is that the two deaths will not be followed up. Evan Hooper will try to get the police to find and prosecute the au pair, and to ruin the play centre. The prankster will sink out of sight and try to forget what happened.’

  Ellie nodded.

  ‘On the other hand, if I were Evan Hooper I’d be lying awake, worrying who I’d offended enough to make him or her want to kill members of his family. Or, perhaps, who might have paid some youngster to do it for him. Or her.’