by Lou Peters
‘Oh don’t sir, I’m starving’.
‘You’re always starving, detective sergeant.’
‘Can’t help it, I’m a growing lad. Or so my mum keeps telling me.’
It appeared number nineteen was near to the far end of the complex, the men hastened their pace.
‘Here we are sir.’ Cooper knocked and then pushed open the unlocked door. If the policemen were expecting to see Mavis Willoughby bed ridden, they were in for a surprise. The bungalow consisted of a single room, with kitchen and living area combined, the doors off, presumably leading to the bathroom and bedroom. The woman was sitting in a comfortable looking armchair in front of a living flame effect, gas fire. Her feet were raised onto a padded stool toasting her toes in the glow from the artificial coals.
‘Come on in lads,’ she called brightly. Mrs. Willoughby wound the bright red yarn she’d been using, around the needles, placing the knitting onto the floor, out of harm’s way. ‘No need to stand on ceremony. Draw up a couple of chairs and tell me what you want to know. If you fancy a brew, there’s tea and coffee over there and biscuits in that big brown barrel, milks in the fridge.’
‘We haven’t come to impose on you Mrs. Willoughby.’
‘Nonsense, I fancy a drink myself, only me legs aren’t quite what they used to be. I can still get around, but it takes me longer than it used to, and please, call me Mavis.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a drink, sir.’ Cooper stated.
‘Okay detective sergeant, put the kettle on.’
‘I’ll wait until we’ve got our drinks, before I start answering your questions, ‘cos I’m sure you’re sergeant will want to take notes.’
‘You seem very well informed, Mrs. Wil... Mavis.’ Walters quickly amended his sentence, as she peered over the top of her glasses at him.
‘Used to have a cousin who was a copper. Like me, he’s retired now. Lot younger than me though. Must be on a good pension I reckon. Still the years have flown by for all of us the same. I can’t complain there are lots of people plenty worse off than me.’
Walters had started to take his warrant card out of his leather wallet.
‘No need for that son. If you can get past Joyce Grenfell, then you must be who you say you are.’
‘Grenfell? Wasn’t she...’
‘Her surname’s not really Grenfell. But I’m surprised a young man like you, can remember the old actress. I’d have thought it would have been well before your time. I can hardly remember her myself. No, our Joyce is Beresford. We either call her Berry or Grenfell, as the mood takes.’
‘My mum used to like her and Alistair Sim in those 1950s comedies.’ Walters admitted. When I was a kid we’d watch the St Trinian’s films together on the TV.’
Mavis was happy to continue the conversation. ‘Yeah the old ones were always the best.’ Take them modern remakes of films such as Alfie and the Italian Job, total crap, not a patch on the real thing. In the originals both of them had whatshisname in... Didn’t they?’
‘Michael Caine.’
‘That’s right, Michael Caine. Not a lot of people know that.’ Sitting in her chair Mavis rocked with laughter at her impression of the cockney actor.
Walters raised a smile.
It’s the same with the St Trinian’s films. They used to be full of fun, in the old days, now they’re full of sleaze.
Nodding his head, Walters wished Cooper would get a move on, enabling the officers to get down to the reason for their visit. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the sergeant produced the steaming mugs. A small nest of tables stood in a corner and Mavis asked Cooper to fetch them. The sergeant placed the mugs back onto the kitchen work surface while he went to retrieve the tables, arranging them conveniently next to the chairs. ‘Do I need to get coasters as well Mavis?’ Cooper’s outgoing personality meant he was more at ease addressing the woman by her Christian name.
‘No son, the tables are Formica topped, heat resistant, so it’s not a problem. Bring that biscuit barrel over before you settle down, so you can help yourselves.
‘That’s very kind.’ Cooper reached for the container. Clutching it to his chest, he returned to his seat, eager to remove the lid and reveal the contents. He hoped there would be some Jaffa cakes inside. He wasn’t disappointed.
‘Right Mavis, down to business. I want you to tell us what you remember of Ruth Montgomery, the neighbour you knew from Queensbury Avenue.’
‘She’s been murdered, hasn’t she?’
‘Now what makes you say that?’ Walters said, completely caught off guard. He’d asked the warden if it would be alright to question Mrs. Willoughby about her past neighbour. However, the detective hadn’t mentioned the circumstances, or that the old lady they were interested in, was dead. He now wondered if the stocky grey haired woman, lounging in the chair had the gift of second sight.
‘Well, it’s not a difficult conclusion to come to. I just have to ask myself, why would a couple of coppers from the south come this far north to ask me questions if there wasn’t a good enough reason? What happened to her?’
‘I don’t know if I should tell you. Don’t want to be giving you nightmares.’ Walters wondered if the relief he felt from her down to earth answer, was reflected on his face. The last thing he’d wanted were messages from beyond the grave.
‘I’m made of sterner stuff than that sonny. Anyway, it wouldn’t be the first time.’
Both officers looked at the woman with interest. ‘Why do you know of another murder that’s been committed?’
‘Two,’ the elderly woman said, deadpan.
‘Two.’ Walters repeated. He hoped the old girl hadn’t been stringing them along. Pretending to be compos mentis, but was actually crazy and was now about to spin an incredible tale, gaga after all.
‘When was that Mavis?’ Cooper asked. Of the two, the blonde haired detective was more receptive to what the woman had to tell them. He leant forwards on the stool alongside of her chair, keen to hear what she had to say.
‘Back in, let me think... must have been the end of the nineties. I know it was before the Millennium... ninety eight, nine something like that.’
‘And, what happened?’
‘It was dreadful.’ Mavis had lost her smile and cocky attitude, as the memories came flooding back to surround her.
‘Go on Mavis, tell us what happened,’ Cooper encouraged.
‘Well, it was in the summer of that year. The kids had broken up for their annual holidays. I was living at number seven. Ruth lived across the road, in the more upmarket Queensbury Villas. She hadn’t long been retired, perhaps a year, or two. She used to keep herself to herself pretty much. Was out at work most days before that, so she never had any time for her neighbours. But give her her due, that all changed after the murders. We became good friends after that.’
Walters wished the woman would quit the preamble and get straight to the chase. However, he didn’t say anything, but let her continue in her own time. Aware if he interrupted her Mavis may clam up entirely, or lose the thread of her conversation.
‘It was just a shame the circumstances that forged our friendship were so dire. Anyway, this tale doesn’t really involve Ruth. Other than she was as devastated as the rest of us when we heard. Perhaps a bit more, she’d never had kids of her own, you see. Her husband died shortly after the two had moved in, Ruth had once told me after I’d got to know her a bit better.’
Get on with it woman, Walters, kept the thought to himself. However, Mavis wasn’t ready to do that just yet.
‘The house my husband, Colin, God rest his soul and I used to live in was attached to number nine. Lucky number nine people used to say. Wasn’t a very lucky number for that family. Hastings their name was. I can see them as clearly as if they were standing in front of me. Yvonne, the mum with her hair piled on top of her head, Pete, her husband, a real carrot top, he was. He had so many freckles on his face it looked like he’d got a permanent tan. And then there was little Angela. And bel
ieve you me she was well named. She was a little angel. Dark hair, blue eyes, ever such a pretty little thing, with a lovely temperament too.’ Mavis had ceased her narrative. She’d let the memories take her back. The sadness settled on her, an invisible shawl of sorrow draped across her shoulders.
‘Was Mavis? Did something happen to the little girl?’ Walters could tell by the woman’s face that that must be the case. He was giving her a gentle nudge, rousing her from the past, enabling her to continue.
Mavis back in the present looked up at Walters. ‘Yes, detective inspector something did happen to the little girl... Just give me a minute will you? I know it happened years ago. But the shock of it hasn’t lessened any. It’s been awhile since I’ve thought about it. Now that I have, it’s all come flooding back.’
‘Take all the time you need,’ Walters reassured her. Now they were getting somewhere he didn’t want to rush her.
The men waited quietly, sipping their coffee until the elderly woman felt she was able to continue.
‘Angela’s mum and dad took her away on holiday to France that summer, camping. They also took a girl of a similar age as their daughter, who would have been about ten at the time, along with them. She was a friend from the girl’s school. The family lived on the council estate, Faulkner Street, I think. A long row of houses situated some way back from Queensbury Avenue,’ Mavis explained. ‘They’ve built even more houses there since those days, increasing the size of the estate. Anyway, she was called Mary something, can’t quite recall her last name... think it may have been Scottish, or Irish. But the truth of it is, the little girls never came back. They were both murdered on that holiday, by some drug taking maniac. Can you imagine how both sets of parents must have felt? Not to mention the recriminations, bandied about.’
‘How did it happen?’ Cooper asked.
Walters was trying to think how the young girls’ murders could have had anything to do with Ruth’s own death. Unless she’d known the identity of the killer, could that be possible?
‘I don’t know the details, don’t want to know. I went through enough agony at the time. Ruth did as well. She wasn’t a drinker before then. All I know is that the little girls went into a derelict house. I presume it was out in the French countryside somewhere. Pete and Yvonne Hastings, mustn’t have been too far way. But far enough for the two to go in alone, and not come out again. The newspapers at the time said the man was a Polish down and out. Tramp, call him what you will, druggie. I reckon he must have been high on something, to do what he did to those poor little mites.’
‘Was the crime ever resolved?’ Walters asked. At first the inspector wondered what yarn the old lady was about to spin. However, he now found himself caught up in her tale, believing every word. His thoughts still tried to force the connection between the two events, then and now, but for the moment the link remained elusive.
‘If you mean by that, did they ever get the bastard that did it? I don’t know. For whatever reason, it seemed to disappear out of the papers and off the TV. I suppose after awhile, it became old news. All’s I know, is the killer could still be out there. He could even be in this country by now. There are enough of them about these days, taking our livelihoods from under our noses. Receiving handouts from our stupid government, to send back home to their families.’ The woman sneered, unimpressed at the thought. Fuelled by popular propaganda and because of the murders, was unfairly tarring everyone of that nationality with the same brush. ‘I bet you’ll find all the information you need on them central police computers that my cousin used to talk about. Even for crimes committed abroad. Interpol that’s what they call it, isn’t it?’
Mavis Willoughby had a point. Walters would make some enquiries when he got back to his office. See if he could find out anything more about the case. If it had had a satisfactory conclusion and been closed off, or not. ‘And the parents, did they ever speak to you about the events?’
‘I haven’t clapped eyes on either Yvonne or Pete Hastings since the day they left to go on holiday, to this. The couple never returned to Queensbury Avenue, and I can’t say I blame them. The house was put up for sale and that was that. Life went on in a fashion. I of course, had a couple of teenagers to keep me more than enough occupied. But Ruth, in that big old house on her own. It hit her hard. Many a time before that fateful holiday I’d seen her out front, talking to Angela. The little girl used to go and feed her cat, whenever she had the odd week-end away. Come to think of it, I don’t recall Ruth having many week-ends away after that. I know she didn’t ask me, or any of my lot to look after her cat and she always seemed to be at home. After she’d retired, there was a guy who used to come and see her quite regularly, at one time. Nice chap. He had a lovely car. Don’t know what make it was, but it was silver and stream lined, with one of them roofs that folded down, you know the sort I mean?’
‘Convertible?’ Cooper offered.
‘Is that what you call them?’
‘And, what happened to this bloke, didn’t she fancy him?’
‘Reading between the lines, she liked him a lot. Ruth said he’d asked her to marry him. I told her what had she got to lose? Nothing as far as I could see, except for being on her own. She’d said she’d wait a bit longer and if he asked her again, she’d think about it. I think she was frightened of betraying her dead husband. But that was crazy the man had been dead for years. Life is for the living, that’s what I say. Anyway, she must have missed her chance, cos the bloke never asked her again. Next thing she’s telling me is he’s marrying someone else…’ Mavis leant forward in her chair. ‘I’ve never told a soul…’ She looked from one policeman to the next, her tone was low. That day after she’d come back from the bloke’s wedding reception, I thought she might be glad of a bit of company and cheering up like. But when I looked through the back window Ruth had been clutching her cat to her chest and crying her eyes out. She must have realised too late, she did have feelings for the bloke after all. It was such a shame; they’d have made a great couple. Ruth was really nice, once you’d got passed that brittle facade she used to put on. It was only to stop her getting hurt... Anyway, you were going to tell me what happened to her. How did the poor cow meet her end?’
‘She let someone into her house and they hit her over the head.’
‘How dreadful, but that doesn’t sound like the Ruth Montgomery, I knew. Wasn’t there a safety chain on the door? She always had it in place when she lived here, a whopping great thing, it was.’
‘There was, but apparently it wasn’t in use at the time.’ Mavis’ words served to reaffirm Walters’ opinion, Ruth had known her killer. ‘Can you think of any reason Mrs. Willoughby, sorry Mavis, or know of anyone from this area who might have wanted to do Ruth harm?’
The bluff old lady thought for a moment, ‘no nothing and non-one... With the exception of that blasted niece of hers, she was a pain in the rear. If she’d have only left Ruth in peace, she might be alive today. Dragging her off to the other end of the country, and at her time of life. She was used to things around here.’
This was the second time, in a space of a few hours that Walters had heard that expression voiced in relation to the dead woman.
‘Was there anyone else that Ruth was close to in the vicinity? Someone that maybe visited her in her home?’
‘Not really, Ruth was a strange one. She only let people get close to her if she wanted them to, you know, a bit reserved. Not like me, I’ll talk to anybody. So she didn’t really have a great many friends. Oh, there was a woman down the road, she was quite friendly with. What the hell was her name? She moved away a few years before Ruth. She’d lost her husband young, as well. I think that’s what they had in common. I don’t know why I’d forgotten about her, they were good friends for quite a number of years. Her son emigrated to New Zealand and he had a couple of kids, which his mum had never seen. Eventually, she upped sticks too and moved out to live with the son and his young family. She was younger than Ruth. Her name�
�s just on the tip of me tongue.’
‘It doesn’t matter, don’t worry.’
‘It’s so frustrating when you can’t remember. That’s what bloody old age does for you... take my advice officers don’t get old,’ Mavis announced, frustrated by her own frailties. ‘Olive, Olive Catchpole,’ she said suddenly, a smile lighting up her face. ‘God that’s such a relief, I hate it when I can’t remember. That would have kept me awake all night, if I hadn’t been able to recall the woman’s name.’
‘What did you make of the niece’s husband, Malcolm?’ Cooper asked, while they were skirting around the subject.
‘He’s not one of your suspects, is he?’
‘You don’t think he’s capable?’
‘No. Not a bit. Ruth quite liked him, actually. I think he’d done a couple of jobs for her around the house, and he was probably the main reason she’d finally agreed to the move.’
‘What’s your opinion of Rowena Harrison? Did you think she had it in her to kill her Aunt?’
‘Yeah,’ Mavis Willoughby responded without a second’s hesitation, ‘What a bitch. The way I’ve heard her speak to her husband, screaming at him out in the street. But you don’t think she really did it, do you?’
Walters shook his head. Finally, he asked, ‘does the name Richard Johnson mean anything to you?’
‘Johnson... Johnson, I think there used to be a family of Johnsons further down the Avenue. But I’m sure they had three daughters. Mind you I don’t know what the husband was called, he could have been Richard.’
‘No, he’d have been too old. The man we’re thinking of was in his middle to late thirties when you may have known him, a couple of years ago. Did some work across the road at Ruth’s old house...’
‘You don’t mean that gardener chappie?’