A Trio of Murders: A Perfect Match, Redemption, Death of a Dancer

by Jill McGown

  Jill McGown

  A TRIO OF

  MURDERS

  A PERFECT MATCH

  REDEMPTION

  DEATH OF A DANCER

  PAN BOOKS

  Contents

  A PERFECT MATCH

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  REDEMPTION

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Post-Mortem

  DEATH OF A DANCER

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Praise for Jill McGown

  About the Author

  By Jill McGown

  A PERFECT MATCH

  Chapter One

  The September dawn crept over the sky like water on blotting paper, spreading a fine, thin light to supplement the yellow glow of the street lighting. In the town centre shopping precinct, photo cells registered the increase, and the anti-theft store lights clicked softly now and then, obediently switching themselves off. The street lamps, made of sterner stuff, remained on duty – except one, and even that obstinately glowed a dull, dying red. The clock set into Marks and Spencer’s wall displayed 6:11 in liquid crystal, and the town slept on, unaware of the coming of the new day, unaware of the milk on the door-steps, unaware that the rain which had lulled it to sleep had moved on, following the thunder northwards.

  The town centre was built on the edge of a hill, a hill once part of the forest which still existed in patches of now more manageable woodland round the new town. Here and there it was allowed to invade the town itself, bringing a little wildness to the unnatural order of a town which had been decided upon, like so many others, in the early fifties. The trees in the heavily wooded parkland at the foot of the hill swayed slightly as the light breeze stirred their branches, and the birds sang, thankful for the storm that had washed away the dust of the long summer. Some had left the trees for the line of semis which stood beside the wood, and the luxury of a bath in the rainwater gathered on the flat roofs of the garages.

  The road was busy during the week, busy enough for mini-roundabouts to have broken out like measles all along its length wherever there was a junction; but on a Sunday morning, even when the grey light had become established, the road was empty and quiet. The hum of an engine broke the stillness, and a police car came down the hill from the station, along the line of semis, towards the wood itself, following the curve of the road to the far end, and pulling across to a lay-by. A young policeman, too tall for the compactness of the Panda car, walked on to the soft, heavy ground, crazed and bare in patches, and crossed diagonally to the footpath.

  The boatshed-cum-café lay hidden by the trees, and beyond it the artificial lake, spreading back into the wood, the way the car had come. The policeman followed the footpath past the building, across the small parking area, round the water’s edge. The ducks swam eagerly towards him as he squelched past, but he had no scraps of food, no time for the ducks. Disappointed, they turned and swam in their own wake, bobbing reluctantly under the surface now and then to make him feel bad.

  The creatures who knew the wood at night scattered as he came, darting for safety into the thick undergrowth, making it shiver, releasing drops of rainwater. They knew she was there; they’d known all night.

  And now, as he involuntarily closed his eyes, so did the policeman.

  Helen Mitchell waved her hand through the steam that rose from the black, traditionally sobering coffee.

  ‘It won’t do much good,’ Donald said, casting a glance at the sofa. ‘It’s a bit over-rated, if you want my opinion.’

  Donald’s opinion wasn’t something that Helen wanted too often these days; their twenty-six years of marriage had seen to that. But she was glad he was there, all the same. Chris sat hunched on the sofa, his eyes technically open, his brain almost working.

  It had been just before six when Helen had been wakened by the doorbell ringing continuously, like a fire alarm, and gone downstairs to see Donald opening the door to a drunk and dishevelled Chris, shirt-sleeved and shivering.

  She’d seen him like that before, his dark hair bedraggled, his chin stubbled with the beard that grew so disreputably fast. At first, Chris Wade had just been a name to Helen; a friend of Donald’s, someone he had done some work for, someone who gave him the occasional round of golf. But two years ago, all that had changed, and Chris had become a responsibility.

  Now, despite all the water which had flowed under the bridge since, they seemed to be back where they started. Helen helped him hold the mug, when it had cooled enough not to be dangerous, and he drank some of the coffee. His eyes moved with difficulty towards her. He looked even younger like this, and she felt like the mother-substitute she had once been.

  ‘Where’s Julia?’ she asked him again, for the umpteenth time. ‘Is she at your house? Chris?’ She shook him gently, but he didn’t have to answer. Both she and Donald had rung the number repeatedly in the past hour, and there had been no reply.

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ Chris said. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ It was all he had said, virtually. Over and over again.

  ‘Didn’t mean to what?’ Donald tried. ‘What didn’t you mean to do?’

  ‘She made me,’ he said. ‘We went to the café.’

  Each time, the conversation had gone the same way. Each time, Helen had looked across at Donald, who was clearly worried; despite the fleshiness with which middle-age disguised his features, he looked almost haggard. Each time, he’d just looked away.

  ‘Is she here?’ Chris asked suddenly, trying to struggle up from the sofa, spilling coffee as he did so.

  No, she wasn’t there. Julia was Donald’s sister-in-law, and their weekend guest; Donald had snapped that he wasn’t her keeper when it had become apparent that she was spending the night elsewhere. His brother Charles had died only a few weeks ago, but Julia had not allowed her loss to affect her too greatly. It had surprised Helen a little that she wasn’t even playing the part of the grieving young widow; she wanted his affairs settled quickly, to get the money for which she had married him, and run. If that had been all there was to it, then only her lack of courtesy should have concerned Donald and Helen when she went off with Chris and failed to return. But of course, that wasn’t all there was to it.

  It concerned Helen, in a way that she had no intention of explaining to Donald, who thought that extra-marital attachments were his prerogative. It was certainly true to say that Julia’s nocturnal activities held no interest for her, as she had indeed said; what she had omitted to say was that Chris Wade’s did. And she was certain that it concerned Donald more than he admitted, certain that his relationship with his sister-in-law had ceased to be platonic long before Charles succumbed to his third heart attack. He had been making unfunny jokes in the clipped, off-hand way that he did when he was upset, because Julia had gone off with Chris and had
not come back. And Helen had felt like laughing, in spite of it all, at the symmetry of the betrayal.

  But now, she had no desire to laugh. Julia wasn’t with Chris. Chris was here, saying that he hadn’t meant to do it, he hadn’t meant to do it.

  ‘Do what?’ she asked again, in an urgent whisper, as Donald shrugged and left the room.

  Alone with Chris, she squeezed his hand in encouragement. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘She took me there – I didn’t mean . . . I shouldn’t just have left her there.’

  Donald’s normally smooth brow was creased with worry as he sat looking out of the spare bedroom window, through the gloom towards the wood, and the boating lake. Chris had been there – he’d said so, more or less. Why? Why would she take him there? His fingertips massaged his brow, then tapped it rhythmically. What had happened? Why had he come here? He’d got drunk, and then come here. Why? Donald dropped his hand to continue its drumming on the windowsill. As he tried to make some sense of the monosyllabic utterances from Chris, the frown grew deeper, furrowing the skin between his brows. Donald’s smoothness of countenance was not the result of a blameless life, free from worry and regret; his was the smoothness of the beach-pebble, that has been buffeted by the wind, moved and turned by the sea, kicked by children, scraped by sand, wearing smoother and smoother, and harder and harder.

  Long-sighted, these days, if anything, he focussed on the sweep of road that separated the old wood from the newer pine wood. At the far end sat a car, its rear lights just visible in the increasing daylight, and it was this to which Donald gave his attention as the questions went through his mind. Another car drew up beside it, its unnecessary headlights lending it an air of urgency. There could be no mistaking the activity at the other end of the road, when the two cars were joined by police squad cars with their flashy orange stripes. As he watched, a police mini-bus passed the house and drove along to the knot of cars at the lay-by. Uniformed policemen got out, one after the other, like one of those joke films, disappearing into the trees that sheltered the boating lake.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  He jumped slightly at the sound of Helen’s voice, but he couldn’t find his own to answer.

  ‘He’s sobering up,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t said what happened yet – he said he wanted time to think.’

  Donald moved to one side in an invitation to join him at the window. Her eyes met his.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘God help him.’

  It was a prayer, not a profanity. Donald moved away from the window, and stood helplessly aside.

  ‘A car’s coming this way,’ Helen said, her voice flat. ‘Two cars.’ She switched on the bedside light.

  Donald rubbed his eyes, hoping he’d wake up, and none of this would be happening. Chris couldn’t have killed her. She couldn’t be dead. But all those police – he sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘They’re stopping here,’ Helen said, coming away from the window. ‘He’s done something, Donald.’ Her grey eyes were tinged with green as she looked at him, as they were when she was tired, or excited, or crying; she had cried too often, he told himself with uncharacteristic honesty. She automatically checked her appearance in the mirror, smoothing down her sleep-tousled hair, still blonde, though here and there streaked with grey. She pulled her housecoat more neatly about her comfortable proportions.

  ‘He’s done something,’ she said again, to his reflection, as the doorbell rang.

  They went downstairs, and Donald opened the door to the police.

  ‘Detective Inspector Lloyd,’ the senior man said, nodding to the constable, who walked back to the car. The other car was just parked, with two policemen in it. Donald still couldn’t find his voice.

  ‘Stansfield CID,’ he continued, with just a trace of a Welsh accent. He had the uncomfortable look of a bearer of bad tidings. ‘I believe you may know a young woman – Julia Mitchell? Is she a relative?’

  Donald nodded miserably. A time like this, and all he could think was that Inspector Lloyd was small for a policeman.

  The coffee had unscrambled part of Chris’s brain, allowing him to move more or less as he intended, but his eyes were still reluctant to work properly. There was someone at the door. Wasn’t it very early? Maybe not, but it felt early. Too early for visitors. Holding a steadying hand out towards the bookcase, Chris made his way to the door. From the hallway, the voices were muffled and urgent; he shook his head and frowned with the effort of concentration as he gently eased up the lightswitch until it clicked quietly, and the curtained room was dark. Opening the door a crack, he could hear, if not entirely follow, the conversation.

  ‘. . . afraid I have bad news, Mr Mitchell.’

  ‘Where is she? What’s happened?’ Helen’s normally deep voice, higher pitched than usual.

  ‘She had your address in her handbag, you see—’

  ‘What’s happened, Inspector?’ Helen, impatient.

  The inspector lowered his voice, and Chris couldn’t hear what was being said, but the reactions were unmistakable. He took a deep breath, and tried to clear his head. She was dead. Dead. But that didn’t make any sense.

  ‘. . . sorry to have to bring such bad news.’ The Inspector cleared his throat. ‘Do you know a Christopher Wade, sir?’

  ‘Wade? Yes – I know someone called Wade—’

  Donald was playing for time. Giving him a chance. Chris looked round the room, lit by the strand of light from the hallway. What did Donald expect him to do?

  ‘We’ve reason to believe that Mrs Mitchell was with him at the boating lake, Mr Mitchell. You wouldn’t know where he is now, would you?’

  Chris held his breath. They’d have to tell him. But he couldn’t remember, couldn’t get it sorted out in his mind.

  ‘No,’ Helen’s voice said firmly, and loudly. ‘I’m sorry, we don’t.’

  The silence which followed her statement seemed to last forever as Chris picked his way across the room to the patio window, sliding it back noiselessly on its newly replaced runners. The draught from the window caught the door, opening it slowly, with the full horror-film squeak that it always gave, flooding the room with light.

  ‘Perhaps I could come in for a moment?’ the inspector asked.

  Chris slipped out into the garden, and slid the window back. The cold morning air that might have cleared his head just made him feel giddy; he made a dive for cover before the already suspicious inspector started looking for him. Crablike, He ran towards the end of the garden, which backed on to the pine wood, and looked back at the curtained house. His foot caught the top bar of the fence as he jumped, and he crashed to the ground, wrenching his ankle. He dragged himself into the wood, crouching below the cluster of new trees. His breath, sharp and cold, was no longer under his control, and he lay on the ground, his eyes closed, gulping air. When at last he could breathe at his own pace, he had time to think. He couldn’t stay here. They’d find him, and he still didn’t know what to say. He needed time to remember.

  He remembered one thing. One place where he could hide, where they might not think of looking. Slowly, painfully, crouching close to the ground, he hobbled away.

  Lloyd followed the Mitchells into the sitting room, and noticed the three mugs that sat on the coffee table.

  ‘Is there another person in the house?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Helen Mitchell said quickly. ‘They’re from last night, I’m afraid – I had a visitor.’ She picked up the mugs and took them away.

  ‘May I sit down for a moment?’ Lloyd hovered over an easy chair, until Mitchell held out a hand in assent.

  Helen Mitchell came back, apologising for keeping him waiting. Both she and her husband looked pale and shocked; both sat quite literally on the edge of the sofa, staring at him anxiously, as he leant back comfortably.

  ‘I realise you’ve had a shock,’ he said, looking from one to the other. ‘And I’m very sorry, but I do
have to ask some questions.’

  ‘Of course, yes.’ Mitchell stood up, his right hand in a fist which he hit gently against his left palm, over and over again. ‘You know,’ he said, speeding up the little punches and stopping, his hands suddenly helpless, ‘it’s like a bad dream.’

  Lloyd nodded sympathetically. ‘What was your relationship to Mrs Mitchell?’

  ‘Brother-in-law,’ Mitchell told him, sitting down again, suddenly. ‘She was married to my older brother. Charles,’ he added, then looked up, almost apologetically. ‘He died a few weeks ago,’ he said. ‘Heart.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lloyd said, smoothing down the hair at the back of his neck, feeling the thinning patch, feeling his age, as he always did when he’d got the rotten job. People wanted to be alone with their thoughts, and he was here asking questions. He cleared his throat. ‘And did Mrs Mitchell live with you?’

  ‘No,’ Helen Mitchell answered. ‘She was just here for the weekend. Donald’s looking after his brother’s estate.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘He’s a solicitor,’ she added, as though in explanation.

  ‘Oh?’ Lloyd was surprised. ‘I thought I knew all the solicitors in Stansfield.’

  ‘You’ll know my firm,’ Donald said. ‘Hutchins and Partners – I don’t do criminal law at all. Conveyancing and probate.’

  ‘I see.’ You’re getting plenty of practice, Lloyd thought.

  ‘I’m actually just the executor of my brother’s estate,’ Mitchell added. ‘My being a solicitor hasn’t got anything to do with it.’ The last sentence was accompanied by a quick, impatient glance at his wife.

  ‘And Mr Wade is a friend of yours?’ Lloyd addressed the question to Mitchell.

  ‘Yes. Yes, he is.’

  ‘Did your sister-in-law know him well?’

  ‘No.’ Mitchell shook his head. ‘They met by accident, really.’

  Lloyd raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘My brother had a lot of property in this area,’ Mitchell said. ‘Scattered about – you know.’ He was staring at his hands, clasping and unclasping them. ‘That’s why Julia was here.’

  ‘I know it must be difficult,’ Lloyd said. ‘There’s no hurry – take your time.’