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

by Jill McGown

  Helen recognised the attempt at a casual question. It was the tone of voice he used when he thought she might have found something out. This would be the explanation, the thing that made it all right.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to Martin,’ she said. ‘I had a word with Elaine, but she didn’t say anything.’

  ‘She will.’

  Helen sat down. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘When we left here, we went up to the café – she said she wanted to see it before she decided finally one way or the other.’

  Helen nodded. Why the big build-up? She knew that already. ‘You told the policeman you’d had an argument with her,’ she said.

  Donald sighed. ‘That was an understatement.’

  ‘Oh?’ Helen prepared herself to listen to yet another of Donald’s complicated lies. He seemed to think that as long as he included imaginative little details, no one would ever suspect.

  ‘We had a flaming row,’ he told her, a little sheepishly. ‘It seems ridiculous now.’

  ‘About the boating lake?’ Helen tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice, but she could hear it herself.

  ‘Yes!’ Donald said, hurt surprise registering automatically. ‘About the boating lake – I told you it was ridiculous.’ He picked up his almost untouched whisky. ‘She was coming into all that money – we haven’t even sorted out how much the estate’s worth yet – and she was insisting on selling that place to the Council.’ He downed his drink, and rose to get another. Helen nursed her gin and tonic, mindful of Donald’s warning about keeping her wits about her for the police.

  ‘Why didn’t Charles put it in his will if he wanted to donate it to the town?’

  ‘Search me. I didn’t do his will, if you remember.’

  She remembered all right. Charles had found it easier to go to the solicitor who handled the Mitchell Development business in London, and Donald was most put out.

  ‘What made you think you could change her mind?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I just thought I’d have one last go at making her see reason.’

  ‘Why did it turn into a row?’ Helen normally accepted his stories at face value, said ‘yes, dear’ and got on with her life. But Julia hadn’t seemed in the least interested in the boating lake. The whole thing was just an excuse, and now he was embroidering it.

  ‘It got personal. By the time we got to Martin’s, we were calling each other names.’

  Helen was sure it had got personal. She raised her eyebrows slightly, but didn’t speak.

  ‘She couldn’t have cared less about the boating lake,’ he said, as though he could read her mind. ‘It was just an excuse – something I wanted her to do. Something Charles would have wanted her to do. So she wasn’t going to do it.’

  Why? Why did he always keep up the pretence? Why did they play this game of lies, excuses, plausible stories? Year after year they had done it. He told them, she listened, and they both knew he was lying. She had come to the conclusion that he had affairs purely for the mental exercise of lying his way out of being caught. The boating lake was just an excuse, all right – an excuse to have Julia there, under his own roof, making the game more challenging than ever.

  And now the initial shock had worn off, her death didn’t really seem to have touched him at all. It certainly hadn’t spoiled the game.

  ‘You want me to come too?’ Judy looked at her desk. There was the fire at the school during the holidays – almost certainly arson; there was the purse stealer at Blend-vend, and she was supposed to be preparing a crime prevention leaflet for the Chamber of Commerce, with particular reference to dissuading shoplifters – one point on which was that they mustn’t call them shoplifters. Shop thefts, shop thieves. She had to give evidence on Thursday, and there was a lot of paperwork to do on that . . . she stopped thinking about it. ‘All right,’ she said.

  On the way to the Sklodowskis’, they tossed theories backwards and forwards like a tennis ball.

  ‘What was Paul Thingy doing in the woods, anyway?’ Judy asked.

  ‘Answering the call of nature,’ Lloyd said.

  ‘Do you mean having a pee or bird-watching?’

  ‘The former.’

  The car picked up speed on the road out to Homewood, where Stansfield’s well-heeled residents chose to live. The made-to-measure houses with their swimming pools and tennis courts – much used this summer, for a change – passed in procession.

  ‘Took a hell of a long time over it, didn’t he?’ Judy remarked, as she turned into Purcell Avenue.

  ‘Couldn’t start his motorbike.’ Lloyd shrugged. ‘I thought he might be a Peeping Tom, but Tom – our Tom,’ he said, with a laugh, ‘says he’d bet money that he’s got nothing to do with it. Says we’ll know why when we see him.’

  The car drew into the tarmacked driveway of a Spanish hacienda, whitewashed, pink tiled, and shuttered.

  ‘You did say they were Polish?’ Judy asked, as they got out of the car, and negotiated the shining new motorbike in the drive.

  ‘Something like that,’ Lloyd said, walking back to where PC Alderton waited. ‘You can get back to work now,’ he said. ‘We’ve arrived with the thumb-screws.’

  Mrs Sklodowska was clearing away the remains of Sunday lunch when they went in, having been heartily welcomed by Paul’s father, a square, fair man in looks, and almost certainly in temperament, Judy thought. His eyes, even bluer than Lloyd’s, looked anxious.

  ‘Alice, this is the police. The other car is not here now.’ He turned to Judy. ‘You will understand – she not like the car out there so long. I told her – they don’t know Paul. He has killed this lady, they think.’

  ‘No, no we don’t,’ Judy said. ‘But we can’t take chances.’

  ‘I tell her that.’

  Sklodowski’s command of the English language was total, but his speech was still peppered with vees, and his syntax was a little eccentric.

  ‘This car is just a car,’ he assured his wife, who tucked a strand of greying hair back into her unfashionable bun.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But it did bother me a bit. Paul only reported it – I mean, you don’t really think he had anything to do with it, do you?’

  Lloyd smiled. ‘Well, we’d like to talk to him. How old is he, Mrs Sklodowska?’

  Judy could feel his smugness in remembering the feminine of the name – especially since Mrs S. was English, and that much more likely to be impressed.

  ‘He’s just turned eighteen.’ She frowned. ‘Do you want to see him alone?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘We’ll see how it goes.’

  Paul was called down from his room, and entered shyly, another version of his father. They all got themselves reasonably comfortably seated before Lloyd began.

  ‘Paul – my sergeant tells me that you were on your way to work when you came in this morning. Where do you work?’

  ‘Mitchell’s,’ he said. ‘I was on six to two.’

  ‘Why did you wait until this morning?’

  Paul moved uncomfortably. ‘I told him. I thought I would be wasting your time. But then it worried me all night, and I decided to come in and tell you.’

  Judy looked at him. She could see what Tom meant. He seemed to be a nice-looking, well-built, normal young man. Peeping Toms usually gave off vibrations of failure, and Paul didn’t. And yet she didn’t think he was telling the truth.

  ‘What else did you think might have happened?’ she asked. Paul looked politely puzzled.

  ‘I mean – when you saw the car come back with just the man in it – what reasons did you give yourself? What did you think might be the perfectly simple explanation?’

  He looked at Lloyd, then back at her, and mumbled something she couldn’t catch.

  ‘Sorry? What did you say?’

  ‘I thought she might have dropped something – she might just have been bending down, and I didn’t see her. Or he might just have been dropping her off there – a shortcut or something. But it d
idn’t seem very likely.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Lloyd said, smiling benignly at him. ‘You took his number, just in case. Do you know whose number it was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? You didn’t recognise the car?’

  ‘No. It was a Cortina, that’s all.’

  ‘What colour?’ Judy asked, remembering her conversation with Mrs Marsden.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ he said, his face becoming more miserable by the minute.

  ‘How do you know it was the same car that you saw going up?

  He shrugged. ‘It looked the same.’

  ‘But it could have been a different car?’ Lloyd asked.

  Paul shrugged again.

  His mother and father did seem a great deal more anxious to help than Paul did. Judy found herself hoping that he would become more forthcoming. She didn’t like the idea of taking him in for questioning from under the noses of his parents.

  ‘Got any brothers or sisters, Paul?’ Lloyd was asking, as though he were changing the subject.

  ‘Two brothers,’ Paul answered.

  ‘Older or younger?’ Judy joined in.

  ‘Older.’

  Lloyd laughed. ‘I’ll bet they led you a dog’s life, didn’t they?’

  ‘No.’ Paul looked uncomprehendingly at him.

  ‘Mine did. My big brother – he still bullies me if he gets the chance!’ Lloyd laughed. Lloyd hadn’t got a big brother.

  ‘My brothers are a lot older than me,’ Paul said. ‘They were almost grown up when I was born.’

  Mrs Sklodowska was nodding vigorously in confirmation.

  ‘So you were spoiled rotten by them, were you?’ Judy tried.

  Paul smiled shyly. ‘I expect so,’ he said.

  ‘Let you have everything your own way, did they?’ Lloyd was still being jocular.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Paul said. ‘They were always sending me for things – to the shops, or upstairs, or next door.’ He laughed a little himself, as he began to relax.

  He was a very young eighteen, Judy thought, but that was probably to be expected.

  ‘Helped you with your homework, did they?’ Lloyd persisted.

  ‘Sometimes.’ Paul looked at his father.

  ‘Were you sometimes a bit jealous of them? They were grown up, weren’t they? They could do what they liked, and you had to do what you were told.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘No, I never minded.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Christopher Wade?’ Judy asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ There wasn’t a glimmer of recognition as he answered. Not the merest blink. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Just wondered,’ Judy said, aware of Mrs Sklodowska’s eyes upon her. ‘What about friends, Paul? Why weren’t you out with your mates on a Saturday night?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Paul looked under his fair eyebrows at her.

  ‘Girlfriends?’ asked Lloyd.

  Paul blushed to the roots of his blond hair.

  Judy bit her lip slightly, trying to understand the reaction. Why blush? Boys of eighteen sometimes had wives, never mind girlfriends. Why should the question embarrass him?

  ‘Well?’ Lloyd said. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve no girlfriends – a good-looking lad like you?’

  ‘There is a girl,’ Sklodowski said, interrupting for the first time. ‘Why do you not answer? She is a nice girl – we have known her a long time. Why do you blush?’ He caught his son’s arm. ‘Eh? Why don’t you answer?’

  Paul took a deep breath. ‘He’s told you,’ he said. ‘Diane. Why are you asking about her?’

  ‘Just interested,’ Judy said. ‘Why weren’t you out with Diane?’

  Paul blushed again, but not so painfully this time. ‘Her dad won’t let her,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Sklodowski stared at him. ‘What do you mean? Since when?’

  Paul shrugged.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ His father hit him gently on the shoulder. ‘Why does he not let her? What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Paul sighed. ‘I think it bothers him. Because you got on and he didn’t. I don’t know why. But he said she’s not to see me.’

  ‘What age is Diane?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘Seventeen. It’s not long to wait until he can’t tell her who to see. We don’t mind waiting.’ Paul waited patiently for more questions.

  ‘Why were you in the wood for so long?’ Judy asked. ‘You saw the car arrive, and leave – that was half an hour later, you said.’

  Paul nodded dumbly.

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I’ve said,’ Paul muttered. ‘I couldn’t start my bike.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Lloyd asked. ‘It’s brand new – it was a very warm night – you shouldn’t have trouble starting it.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Paul shouted.

  ‘Did you go up there? Did you go up to see what was going on?’

  ‘What?’ The question came from both Paul and his mother. ‘You heard,’ Lloyd said, his voice hard. ‘Did you want to watch?’

  Paul stared at him. ‘You’re joking,’ he finally said.

  ‘Am I? I thought you must be with that story about the bike.’

  Paul stood up, and so did Lloyd. Paul was inches taller. ‘The bike broke down,’ he said. Anger had made him lose his self-consciousness. Suddenly, he didn’t seem so young.

  ‘Why didn’t you push it? You’re a big lad – Wade’s garage is just down the road.’

  But Paul didn’t take the bait that Lloyd was dangling. If he knew that Wade wasn’t at the garage, he didn’t give himself away.

  ‘Who is this Wade?’ he asked. ‘Why do you keep dragging him – oh! That’s whose car I saw – right? So why should I know him?’

  Lloyd walked away from him, over to the window. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you know him. At first I did. I thought maybe you knew the car, and didn’t want to tell. But now I’ve got it. You went up to have a look, didn’t you? And that’s when you saw him. And it frightened you, so you ran away. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  Paul looked at Judy. ‘It was nothing like that,’ he said mildly.

  Judy allowed herself a smile. ‘Then tell us what it was like.’

  Chris awoke with a start, staring at a damp green wall. For a second, he had no idea where he was, but then the unwelcome memories flooded back. He could see faces – Julia’s, pinched and frightened, phone in her hand to call the police. He’d only been trying to apologise, see if she was hurt. She didn’t have to do that. He’d tried to explain to Helen – he could see her face, worried and loving. He could vaguely see Donald’s. Worried, asking him over and over again what he’d done. She shouldn’t have said those things – she shouldn’t. He remembered the garage, and the bottle of whisky that he’d found. Whisky to try to blot out the memory, but it hadn’t worked. Carrie’s familiar face was there. It had all come rushing back to him as he drove away from the wood. Carrie, lying in the street in the rain, covered with someone’s plastic mac. The rain teeming down, running off the coat into the road. Police cars, their lights flashing blue through the steady downpour; the ambulance, siren braying, inching its way through the Christmas crowds who couldn’t help and wouldn’t leave. And he didn’t have a scratch. Nothing – nothing wrong with him at all. He had drunk the whisky to make it go away, but it had stayed, and he’d let Helen down.

  Now, he felt sick. He had a splitting headache, but he could think more clearly. Julia was dead. He didn’t care, that much he did know. But someone else must have come along and killed her, because she was alive and kicking when he left. He tried to think of what they’d done. He’d taken her up there, gone in, tried to talk to her, had a row. He remembered thinking that she must be picking rows with everyone, because she and Donald were having a row when they arrived at Elaine’s. She couldn’t have died – not from what he did. No one dies, not like that. Not after they’ve threatened to phone the police and hurled abuse at you. Oh,
that was just being stupid. Of course she didn’t die from anything he did. Someone went up there and killed her.

  God knows, there were probably enough people who wanted to.

  The teams of men moved out, widening the area that they were searching. The cameramen were being allowed in now, and they filmed the spot where the girl had been found, and the outside of the building that was still sealed off. Flashes supplemented the daylight, as the press got their photographs of the police searching every inch of the woodland. Reporters hovered, having to make do with press statements until they could find a real live policeman to talk to, because right now they were all too busy.

  So they grumbled about the weather, and their accommodation, and the fact that their expenses wouldn’t cover their expenditure, what with the hotel costing the bloody earth and it was all right for lorry drivers, they could sleep in the cab. And they sat gloomily in their cars, or on the still damp grass until they discovered that it was still damp, and they watched the people who were working, and wished that they were, or that the pubs were open.

  They wouldn’t even say who they were looking for, though they obviously all knew. They’d heard the rumours, of course, but you can’t print rumours. You can mention the odd disappearance of one Christopher Wade, garage proprietor, which you just happen to have picked up while you were in the area. Is he another victim? But it wasn’t as good as coming right out with it. Widow’s Death – Local Businessman Sought. Come to that – why hadn’t they found him?

  Will Lakeside Killer Strike Again?

  Chapter Four

  Strikes, trouble in the Middle East, trouble in Northern Ireland; they took second place to trouble here in Stansfield, which had caught the attention of the national news, as Helen watched, waiting to hear what was happening. The policeman hadn’t come back; not yet, anyway. Donald, less interested, was on the phone to someone, arranging to go to London tomorrow.

  The familiar music of the early evening news, opening with the pictures she had already seen in her mind. The police searching the wood; the lake, looking dark and cold as the wind ruffled its surface.