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

by Jill McGown

  Just in case they had to accommodate her daughter’s vicious husband.

  Eighteen months, Marian thought, as she quickly and efficiently spread the sheets on the bed. Married eighteen months, and already an old hand at being knocked about. It wasn’t too bad this time, she had said. Not compared to last time. Marian shook her head, and smoothed out the blanket. Perhaps you got grateful when he only blacked your eyes.

  She sat on the bed, remembering the first eighteen months of her own marriage. Discovering George, realising that she wasn’t obliged to be his right arm, and finding that she wanted to be, anyway. They hadn’t had many rows – they’d been lucky. She’d become aware of his temper, of course, but it was usually aroused by something beyond their domestic boundaries.

  The first time he’d actually been angry with her was when they’d been married about six months. She remembered the occasion; where they were when the row blew up. They were in the garden shed, of all the unlikely places for her to find herself. It was something to do with the garden – she had interfered with one of his precious plants, or something. He told her she’d killed it. He was furious. She tried to imagine how she would have felt if he’d attacked her physically, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t begin to imagine being frightened of George.

  She finished making the bed, and set about the fire-building process with rather less efficiency. Twenty-six years of coping with the vicarage fires had done nothing to make her any more expert, but she thought that if it was lit now, it would be just right when she got back.

  As Marian scrubbed the coal-dust from her hands, she could hear again what Joanna had said while she was bathing her eyes. Quietly; so quietly that George, still shocked, hadn’t even heard her.

  But Marian had.

  Joanna was getting used to the stares; she had told those who’d asked that she had been to the dentist. She had once seen someone come back from the dentist with black eyes. The swollen mouth added to the effect, but even so, there were one or two polite but old-fashioned looks.

  They were in a corner, where they could speak without being overheard. She looked at her father, whose face was still dark with brooding anger.

  ‘He needs help,’ she said.

  He sipped his beer. ‘He needs something.’

  ‘He’s going to see someone.’

  ‘Not before time.’

  ‘I’m going back with him,’ she said carefully. She paused. ‘We’re going to get help.’

  Her father stared at her, slowly putting down his mug. ‘You’re not serious,’ he said.

  She knew what she was doing to him, but she had to go through with it. ‘It isn’t his fault,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t care whose fault it is,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘I don’t care, Joanna. It’s you I care about!’

  ‘He doesn’t—’ She stopped as the barmaid came along, picking up empty glasses.

  ‘You’ve been in the wars,’ said the barmaid cheerfully.

  Joanna smiled weakly.

  ‘Dentist, Bill said. Eye-tooth, was it? I know they can do that to you.’ She laughed. ‘Your husband must be getting some funny looks,’ she said, and went off to pass a few cheery words with someone else.

  ‘He doesn’t know what he’s doing,’ Joanna carried on.

  ‘He knows well enough to stop doing it when he hears someone coming,’ her father said. He leant closer. ‘What would have happened if we hadn’t come back, Jo? It would have been like last time, wouldn’t it? Maybe even worse.’

  Joanna stared into her barely touched cider.

  ‘He’s dangerous, Jo. You must see that. You can’t go back to him! It’s—’

  ‘He doesn’t understand you,’ she said, interrupting him.

  George drank some beer. ‘I should hate to think that he did,’ he said coldly.

  ‘He doesn’t understand why you’re so against us trying to work it out,’ she said. She was hurting her father more than she’d ever hurt anyone, and she loved him. ‘He thinks you should be stronger on letting no man put asunder,’ she said.

  ‘I think he should be stronger on cherishing,’ said her father.

  ‘But you’re supposed to believe in all that,’ she persisted. ‘If I was a stranger, you’d be helping me. You’d be helping Graham.’

  He looked shocked; she wished she hadn’t said it. But it was true.

  ‘Do you love him?’ he asked suddenly.

  Joanna looked away. ‘He isn’t like that all the time,’ she said.

  ‘Do you love him?’ he repeated.

  ‘I did! When I married him.’

  ‘And do you still?’

  Joanna looked round the little pub, full of people in various stages of Christmas cheer. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to separate one thing from the other. It’s not his fault. Yes. Yes, I do.’

  ‘But you didn’t make any attempt to get in touch with him, did you? Why not?’

  Joanna’s eyes were throbbing. She sipped her cider.

  ‘Why not, Joanna?’ he asked again.

  ‘I was afraid,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have left. It’s only made things worse.’

  ‘How can you love someone you’re afraid of?’ he asked.

  Joanna looked over her glass. ‘You should know,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to fear God and love him at the same time?’

  Her father sat back. ‘I can’t help you, Jo,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how, because I don’t understand. All I can do is tell you how to fight back. Don’t drop your guard – learn how to punch. Learn how to put your weight behind a blow, how to duck and weave—’

  ‘Stop it.’ She had never heard him so bitter about anything. ‘We’re just making one another unhappy,’ she said. ‘This wasn’t a good idea.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t.’ He finished his half pint. ‘How can you talk about going back to him when he’s just done that to you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve got reasons,’ Joanna said. One reason. One that she wasn’t going to share with anyone.

  Eleanor was attempting to assemble the first toy. Didn’t people used to buy toys already made? She stared at the instructions for the pedal car. What on earth was a . . . ? She screwed her eyes up to read the small, smudged print, but she still didn’t know what it was, never mind which one of the parts at her disposal it was likely to be.

  She had finally located the thread of a plastic bolt when the doorbell rang, and the nut slipped backwards and off. Eleanor glared at the door. Trust someone to come just when it seemed she had got the hang of something. She flicked the curtain back, and smiled. George’s car – he must have come for his tie. He’d know how to get the car together.

  What was it he wanted from her, she wondered. Was this the harmless flirtation that one read about in problem pages? She picked up the tie and, on an impulse, draped it round her neck. Maybe she could get her own back.

  She opened the door, and froze.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Marian Wheeler.

  She couldn’t take it off; she’d notice. ‘Oh, hello,’ she replied, certain that her face had betrayed her if the tie hadn’t.

  ‘I’m calling to confirm George’s invitation,’ she said. ‘You’d be very welcome.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Eleanor said, still transfixed.

  ‘Please don’t hesitate to come over,’ Marian went on. ‘Any time. Don’t worry if there’s no one in when you get there – the door won’t be locked. Just make yourself at home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Eleanor said again, as her wits slowly returned.

  Ask her to come in, she told herself. You’ll have to – she’s just invited you for Christmas. ‘Would you like to come in?’ she asked, but it really didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘No, thank you – I’ve got some other calls to make.’

  ‘Well – thank you for coming.’

  ‘Not at all. Oh – and if you did want to contact anyone tonight . . .’ She paused, just for an instant. ‘Your mother-in-law,
is it, that you’re expecting? I’ll be pleased to pass on a message – I know you can’t leave your little girl.’

  Had she seen the tie? Was that why she stopped speaking for a moment? Oh, God, had she? ‘It’s very kind of you,’ Eleanor said. ‘But I – no. No, thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. And do bring Tessa over to see us some time over Christmas anyway. It’s a long time since there was a little girl at the vicarage.’ She turned to go. ‘A long time,’ she said again.

  Lloyd drained his glass and set it down on the bar.

  ‘Another?’

  ‘No, thanks, Jack.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I think I’ll get off now,’ he said. ‘Get an early night.’

  ‘It’s only ten o’clock,’ Jack said. ‘I thought you never went to bed the same day you got up?’

  Lloyd slid off the stool.

  ‘Got a date, have you?’ said Jack.

  Lloyd looked at him quickly. Jack had his Dutch uncle voice on. ‘I just don’t want to miss Santa,’ he assured him.

  ‘Judy rang in,’ Jack went on. ‘She said to say she’s sorry she missed you, and happy Christmas.’

  That was something, Lloyd supposed. ‘I hope she’s having fun with her in-laws,’ he said.

  ‘In-laws are obligatory at Christmas,’ Jack said, and finished his pint. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t stay out too long on Christmas Eve. I’ll go home and surprise the wife. Any chance of a lift?’

  ‘Sure.’ Lloyd smiled. Jack Woodford was the most complete family man he had ever met, but he liked to give the impression that he wasn’t. Lloyd had been a family man too, once. Before the rows, which weren’t so bad because you could always kiss and make up. Before the long silences, which were awful, because the air never cleared, and it got hard to breathe. Before the complaints about the hours he worked, and the accusations of neglect. Now, Barbara seemed almost like a stranger. Perhaps she always had been.

  ‘Trouble with this job,’ Lloyd said, holding the door open, ‘is that you know your colleagues better than your family sometimes.’

  ‘Or they know you better,’ Jack said, as they went out into the dark, slushy car park. ‘I mean, there’s things you can’t talk about to your family – not even your wife. Things they wouldn’t thank you for talking about.’

  ‘Things they wouldn’t understand if you did,’ Lloyd said, unlocking the passenger door. Little things. Minor irritations, minor triumphs, shared with people to whom they did not have to be explained.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jack, mind-reading, as he often did. ‘Like that bloody book.’

  Lloyd laughed. The Super’s ideas of efficiency weren’t meeting with general approval. The book was instituted so that the desk sergeant could see at a glance . . . Lloyd couldn’t quite remember what. ‘Like that bloody book,’ he agreed.

  ‘Still,’ Jack said, arranging his legs more comfortably. ‘You’ve got all that sorted out, haven’t you?’

  ‘The book?’ asked Lloyd, puzzled.

  ‘The problem.’

  Oh. Lloyd didn’t answer, as he negotiated the slippery car park entrance. Snow began to fall again, and he sighed.

  ‘You and Judy Hill,’ Jack said, not one to beat about the bush for ever, if the birds didn’t rise. Stick the gun in and shoot them there.

  ‘I thought I was overdue for a lecture,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘I’m not lecturing you – just pointing out that it’s not very clever.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant.’ He leant slightly on the rank.

  ‘Don’t try that with me,’ Jack warned. ‘There are promotions in the wind – Barton’s getting a shake-up in the new year.’

  Jack was ten years older than Lloyd, but he behaved as if he were old enough to be his father. It was Jack, a sergeant at twenty-seven, who had interested Lloyd in making the police his career. Jack himself had never tried to get further than sergeant, having found his niche.

  Lloyd switched on the windscreen wipers. ‘I’m not all that ambitious, Jack,’ he said.

  ‘And Judy? Is she not ambitious either?’

  Lloyd had never really thought about it.

  ‘Look, Lloyd. I don’t know how serious it is – I’m just saying watch your step, that’s all. You’ve all but got your promotion – they’ll come down on her harder than they will on you.’

  ‘It’s not against the bloody law!’ It wasn’t even happening at the moment. He’d barely even seen Judy out of working hours since Michael became desk-bound.

  ‘If her husband took it into his head to complain . . .’ Jack said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  ‘So what?’ said Lloyd. ‘What do you think they’d do, Jack? Break her on the wheel? She’d get shifted to another station, that’s all.’

  ‘As sergeant. No promotion – and it’s hard enough for women to make inspector without having the reputation of—’

  The car swerved slightly as Lloyd took his eyes off the road. ‘She has not got a reputation!’ he shouted.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It would be a black mark, that’s all. One that a woman can’t afford in this job.’

  ‘When did you get Women’s Lib?’ Lloyd muttered, running the window down to check for traffic.

  ‘She’s a nice girl – and she’s good. I’d like to see her get on.’

  Lloyd pulled up outside Jack’s house, and Jack undid his seat-belt, but he didn’t get out. He turned to Lloyd. ‘If it’s just a fling, she’s risking more than you. That’s all I’m saying.’

  Lloyd sighed. ‘It’s not really like that,’ he said. ‘Judy and I go way back. To before she was married.’

  Jack raised his eyebrows, ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said.

  ‘No. You don’t know everything, O Wise Grey-haired One.’

  ‘Sorry. None of my business,’ he said, as he got out.

  ‘No. But I’ll pass your message on.’

  ‘Right.’ Jack leant back into the car. ‘Come whenever you like tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Lunch will be at about two-thirty.’

  ‘Smashing. Thanks, Jack – oh, and . . .’ He smiled. ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  It was after eleven by the time he got to the flat, and well past midnight by the time he had the little tree under control. He picked the pine-needles from his sweater, and strung the lights through the branches. Then he solemnly brought the little present from the bedroom, and took out the white nylon ribbon. With considerable lack of skill, he finally persuaded it into a bow, and snipped the ends until it looked more or less even. He swept the pieces of ribbon into the big empty ashtray that only Judy ever used, and switched on the tree lights.

  Standing back to admire his handiwork, he wondered if Judy wanted to be a DI in Barton.

  Michael’s mouth brushed her neck, beginning its comfortably predictable quest, and Judy turned towards him, responding to the familiar overtures almost without conscious thought. She frowned, puzzled, as he drew away from her.

  ‘What’s the point?’ he said.

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘It’s no good.’

  ‘How do you know? We haven’t done anything yet.’

  He swung his legs out of bed, and sat with his back to her. ‘Would you have noticed if we had?’ he asked.

  ‘Michael! That’s not fair.’

  ‘No?’ His shoulders hunched slightly. ‘It’s all so—’ he began, and abandoned it. ‘You were on automatic bloody pilot,’ he said.

  The protest died on her lips as she acknowledged the truth of his complaint. ‘Sorry,’ she said, touching his shoulder. He didn’t respond, and she took her hand away. ‘Come on, Michael,’ she said. ‘What do you expect? We’ve been married too long for—’

  ‘For what? A simulation of some interest in the proceedings?’

  ‘I wish you’d get back into bed,’ Judy complained. ‘It’s freezing.’

  ‘I don’t expect passion,’ he went on.

  ‘We were hardly at the passionate stage, were we?’ Judy said.
/>
  ‘We never have been,’ he said, turning to look at her. ‘But there used to be some enthusiasm. Not now.’ He looked at her for a moment. ‘Now, it’s a way of passing the time. Like doing a crossword, but without the emotional involvement.’

  ‘Are you saying that’s just me?’ she asked hotly.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said urgently. ‘They’re just across the landing!’

  ‘I will not keep my voice down! Our marriage may not be anything to write home about – but lack of emotional involvement is your speciality, not mine!’

  He looked away again. ‘I’m sorry if I bore you,’ he said.

  Judy frowned. ‘You don’t bore me,’ she said. ‘Are you bored? Is that what it is?’ She sat up, and smiled. ‘Is it unnatural practices time?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  She lay back on the pillow. ‘What’s all this leading up to, Michael?’ she asked.

  Did he know about her and Lloyd? She was surprised to find a cold pool of dread beginning to form. Not guilt, she noted dispassionately. Just panic at being found out before she was ready. But it couldn’t be that. Michael must have decided long ago to push any suspicions about her and Lloyd to the back of his mind, and leave them there. So why would it bother him now, when she wasn’t even seeing Lloyd?

  ‘Do you want to do something?’ she asked. ‘Tell me. The worst I can do is say no.’

  ‘There is something I’d like us to do,’ he muttered, only just loudly enough for her to hear. He looked over his shoulder at her.

  Judy waited, ready for anything.

  ‘I’d like us to have a baby.’

  Almost anything. She felt as though the world had stopped, as she stared back at him, at the eyes no longer bleak now that he had unburdened himself.

  ‘It’s not such an unnatural practice,’ he said.

  A baby had no place in Judy’s scheme of things, if she had a scheme of things. Life was complicated enough without that. ‘Why?’ was all she could ask, when she found her voice.

  ‘Why not?’

  Why not? My God, she could give him a dozen reasons.

  ‘You like babies, don’t you?’ he asked, the words incongruous coming from him, from Michael, from room-at-the-top Michael.