They chatted for a few minutes longer, then Joan said she must get back to Vicky.
In bed, Thanet could not get to sleep. Without Joan beside him he felt bereft, incomplete, and found himself listening out all the time for her return.
Eventually, after an hour of tossing and turning, he decided to get up. He went downstairs, made himself some tea and sat down at the kitchen table to drink it. A moment later he decided he might as well wait in comfort in the sitting-room. He didn’t feel like reading, and although he had never watched television at this hour before he switched the set on. They were showing a film of a nineteen fifties musical. Sinking into an armchair he drank his tea then slipped into a half-awake, half-asleep state in which he drifted in and out of consciousness. Images from the dramatic events of the evening mingled with sentences read during the report session this afternoon and snatches of conversation from the last few days. Some time in the small hours he fell asleep and dreamed that Marcia was floating down the river towards him, that he was reaching to pull her out. But when he finally got her out of the water he discovered that she was Vicky. ‘What shall I tell Peter?’ he moaned. ‘What shall I tell Peter?’
Someone was shaking him by the arm and he blinked awake. Joan’s concerned face hovered over him.
‘You were dreaming.’
He shook his head to clear it. ‘Yes, I …’ He stopped, groping to recapture the dream before it faded.
‘What?’ She looked exhausted. ‘Luke, what is it?’
He didn’t reply, scarcely heard her. An astounding thought had just struck him. Was it possible?
‘Luke?’ Joan was tugging at his sleeve.
He glanced at his watch. Half-past three. Louise would not appreciate it if he rang Lineham now. And this certainly wasn’t the moment to start propounding theories to Joan. Somehow he would have to wait until morning.
Suppressing his excitement, he shook his head. ‘Just an idea,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get you to bed.’
TWENTY-SIX
At half-past nine next morning Thanet and Lineham were knocking at Mrs Pepper’s door. The pink and scarlet tulips in the tiny front garden were looking somewhat the worse for wear after the torrential rain the other day. The weather today didn’t look too promising either; the early morning sunshine had long since faded and ominous-looking clouds were building to the west.
Mrs Pepper looked surprised to see them. She was even smaller than Thanet had remembered. She had exchanged the green tracksuit with orange trimmings for a purple one with yellow trimmings. Thanet was glad to see that beside her was Spot, old Mrs Carter’s dog. Nurse Lint must have persuaded Mrs Pepper to take him on.
‘No, we won’t come in, thank you. There’s just one question we wanted to ask you.’
He told her what it was and her eyebrows went up. ‘What on earth d’you want to know that for?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t say. But if you could just tell us …’
Her answer was just what he wanted to hear. He and Lineham exchanged jubilant looks.
They left her gazing after them, puzzled.
Next stop was the Vicarage.
‘Let’s hope he’s in,’ said Thanet as they walked across the green. ‘If I hadn’t had to attend the daily meeting …’
‘We couldn’t have left any earlier anyway, we had to make that phone call.’
‘True.’ Thanet was edgy. What if Fothergill were out? They already had sufficient confirmation of his theory – Fothergill’s evidence would really just be the icing on the cake. But he had a feeling amounting almost to superstition that he must have the answers to every single query he had listed before tackling the murderer; he wanted to be as sure of his ground as possible.
Telford Green Vicarage was a compact modern house which had been built in the grounds of the large, draughty, Victorian vicarage next door.
There was no response to their ring.
Thanet shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. ‘Come on, Mr Fothergill.’
‘I’d settle for Mrs Fothergill. At least she could tell us where he’s likely to be.’
‘Vicars!’ said Thanet, scowling. ‘He could be anywhere. He could be away at a conference.’
‘Or at the Diocesan Synod.’
Thanet raised an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t know you even knew such a thing existed, Mike.’
Lineham grinned. ‘Just a little information I picked up.’ He rang the bell again. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what it is, though. What is it?’
Thanet was saved from having to reply by the young woman who now walked through the gate. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and was pushing a pushchair with a baby in it. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Mrs Fothergill?’ said Thanet with relief. He introduced himself. ‘We’d like a word with your husband.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s out.’ Then, looking at their faces, ‘But he should be back shortly. He’d better be! I need the car to go to Sturrenden and do the weekly shop. Would you like to wait inside?’
She showed them into the sitting-room, made them cups of coffee, then excused herself. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s rather a lot to do before I go.’
‘Just forget we’re here,’ said Thanet, smiling.
Ten minutes later a series of explosions heralded Fothergill’s return. Lineham jumped up and went to the window. Thanet joined him. Fothergill spotted them and raised a hand, ostentatiously patting the car before coming into the house.
‘Is she really going shopping in that?’ said Lineham.
‘Don’t suppose she has much choice.’
‘Sorry!’ Fothergill breezed in. ‘Hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.’
‘Not at all. We’ve only been here ten minutes and your wife very kindly gave us some coffee.’
‘Good. Excellent. So?’ Fothergill looked from one to the other. ‘How can I help you?’
‘There was something we wanted to ask you …’
Five minutes later they were back in the car.
Lineham’s eyes were sparkling. ‘Pretty conclusive, don’t you think, sir?’
‘I hope so, Mike. I hope so.’ Over the years Thanet had learned to trust his intuition. ‘Never underestimate those gut feelings,’ he had once been told by a policeman he very much respected. And he was certain about this now, in his own mind. But to satisfy the law was another matter. He said so.
‘So what do we do? Wait until we have some evidence that’ll clinch it?’
‘The trouble is, I don’t see much prospect of getting any. No, I think our only hope is to try and manoeuvre a confession.’
‘And if one isn’t forthcoming?’
Thanet shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to play it by ear.’
Back, then, through the village which had become so familiar to them, past the cottage where Marcia had spent the miserable childhood which had spurred her on to success beyond her dreams; past the pub where Salden, Hammer and Lomax had in turn drowned their sorrows on the night of what Thanet was now convinced was a murder; over the bridge – now being repaired, Thanet noticed – where Marcia had met her death; past the Hammers’ cottage and the lodge where Edith lived, to the house with which Marcia had fallen in love all those years ago.
As they emerged from the avenue of trees, huge spots of rain began to spatter the windscreen. Remembering their previous experience when Mrs Pantry had kept them standing on the doorstep in a downpour, this time they pulled raincoats on. By the time they reached the front door it was pouring.
Mrs Pantry was as unwelcoming as ever. ‘He’s out.’
It was an anticlimax. Hunching his shoulders against the water trickling down his neck, Thanet tried to suppress his disappointment.
‘Where’s he gone?’
She planted herself a little more firmly on her solid legs, as though preparing herself against an onslaught, and folding her arms across her chest said belligerently, ‘Can’t you leave the poor man alone? After all he’s been through.’
‘I assure you we wouldn’t be wanting to talk to him if it weren’t absolutely necessary. Where is he?’
‘You’re the detective. Well then, detect.’
Thanet suppressed his rising anger. ‘Mrs Pantry …’
‘What is it, Mrs Pantry? What’s going on?’ It was Edith Phipps. ‘What on earth are you thinking of, keeping the Inspector and the Sergeant standing out there in the pouring rain? Look at them, they’re half drowned. I can’t think what Mr Salden would say. Come in, Inspector!’
Thanet shook his head. ‘Thank you, no. We wanted to speak to Mr Salden, and I believe he’s out. Do you know where he is?’
Edith gave Mrs Pantry an admonitory look. ‘He’s gone fishing.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Not exactly ideal weather, but it never seems to bother him. He’s got one of those big umbrellas.’
‘Where does he go, do you know?’
‘Not really. Down to the Teale, that’s all.’
‘So he’ll be somewhere in the grounds.’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure of it.’
‘Great!’ said Lineham when they were back in the car. ‘So all we have to do now is walk along about a mile of river bank in the pouring rain.’
‘I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t get much wetter than I already am.’
‘True.’
‘So we might as well do it.’
‘Why not?’
They decided to drive back to the bridge and start from there. He’d been wrong in thinking he couldn’t get any wetter, thought Thanet as they trudged along, their Wellingtons swishing through the sodden grass. He must be mad. Why couldn’t he have waited? The rain would stop soon enough and then they could have made this trek in comfort. But having come this far he certainly wasn’t going to turn back now.
Ten minutes later they spotted the blue and yellow segments of a big umbrella tucked under the lip of the river bank fifty yards ahead.
‘It might not be him,’ said Lineham.
But it was. Salden looked cosy enough, well wrapped up in waterproof jacket and trousers, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. Thanet looked at it enviously. He could hardly expect to be offered a cup, and even if he were he wouldn’t be able to accept, in the circumstances.
‘You look a little damp, Inspector.’ There was a glint of amusement in Salden’s eyes. ‘This is surely devotion well beyond the call of duty. Would you like to share my umbrella? I’m sure we could all squeeze underneath.’
‘There are some trees over there,’ said Thanet.
He and Lineham waited while Salden reeled in his line and propped his rod against the overhanging bank, then they headed for the trees. It was only marginally drier here; the leaves were not yet fully unfurled, the summer canopy not yet established.
Thanet decided that there was no point in wasting time. Shock tactics might in any case prove more effective. He nodded at Lineham.
‘Bernard Salden, you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence.’
Salden looked – what? astounded? appalled? It was difficult to tell, with the rain streaming down his face.
He looked from one to the other. ‘What?’
‘Mr Salden. Before you tell us exactly what happened on Tuesday night, let me say off the record that I’m sure you will find any jury sympathetic to your case. Any man who suddenly discovers that his daughter has been murdered …’
Salden was galvanised into life. ‘Murdered? What are you saying? Who told you that?’ He grabbed Thanet by the shoulders and shook him. He looked frantic.
Thanet was nonplussed. He didn’t know what to say. In a matter of seconds his neatly constructed edifice had been demolished. His whole case rested on the premise that, in an abnormal state of mind as a result of severe post-natal depression, Marcia had killed her baby daughter and disposed of the body. With no one else to turn to she had then run to her mother for sanctuary, confessed her crime and sworn Mrs Carter to secrecy. This, he had been convinced, was what Mrs Carter had wanted to tell Bernard before she died and this, he had been certain, was what had prompted that fatal quarrel between Salden and his wife. But if Salden hadn’t known …? He stared at Salden. Should he back down, apologise? No. Facts were facts. Doggedly he recounted them.
‘That charade your wife played, when she came back to Telford Green, claiming the baby had died. We checked with the Records Office, and no death certificate exists. We spoke with Mrs Pepper, who attended the “funeral”. The “ashes” were not buried in the churchyard. In that case the vicar would have needed a copy of the death certificate, and of course Marcia didn’t have one. A convincing little ceremony was held on the village green instead. No doubt your wife intended to deceive her mother, too, but somehow she must have let the truth slip out. Mrs Carter might have carried the secret with her to the grave, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to. She …’
‘Just a minute, let me get this straight. Are you suggesting my wife murdered Clare?’
‘I told you, the death certificate doesn’t exist …’
Something was happening to Salden’s face. The flat planes were cracking, breaking up. He collapsed into a sitting position on the ground, hunched forward with hands over face, shoulders heaving.
Thanet and Lineham looked at each other. Now what? They stood staring down at Salden. And then Thanet realised. Those snorts and sniffles were not the sounds of grief.
Salden was laughing.
Oblivious of the rain, Thanet realised that at last it really had happened; his famous intuition had let him down and one of his theories truly was just as preposterous as it sounded. He remembered the struggle he had had to convince Draco of its credibility, and his soul shrivelled with embarrassment. He cursed himself now for not keeping his mouth shut until he was certain. Yes, he had to face it. He had made a fool of himself in a big way. He risked a glance at Lineham, but the Sergeant was avoiding his eye.
Salden was wiping his eyes, shaking his head. He held out a hand and Thanet helped him to his feet. ‘Sorry about that. But you really had me worried there, for a minute, Inspector.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Thanet stiffly.
‘Oh, it’s OK. Don’t worry. As soon as I realised you were talking about the past, not the present …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought,’ said Salden, with the patient air of someone spelling something simple out, ‘that you meant you’d just heard that my daughter had been murdered.’
Just heard? Thanet tried to remember exactly what he’d said. Let me say off the record that I’m sure you will find any jury sympathetic to your case. Any man who suddenly discovers that his daughter has been murdered … But if Salden had thought that … And Salden hadn’t queried what Thanet had said about the death certificate … A tiny bud of hope began to unfurl in his chest as he adjusted to new possibilities.
‘You did know that your daughter is still alive, then?’
There was a brief silence. In Salden’s eyes was the look of a man who suddenly realises that he has said too much.
‘So that was what Mrs Carter wanted to tell you on Tuesday night. I see.’ Thanet did see. He saw that here was another motive as strong as the last. Whatever Marcia had done with the child, Salden would have been furious with her for deceiving him so, for depriving him of almost thirty years of fatherhood.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh come, Mr Salden. I’m not stupid. You gave yourself away there, didn’t you? What did your wife say she’d done with the baby? Given her to a childless couple, perhaps, who were so desperate for a child that they would take her with no questions asked? No? Surely she didn’t just abandon her?’
Despite his attempt at self-control, Salden’s expression gave him away.
‘No,’ said Thanet firmly, knowing that if this bluff failed all was lost. ‘That can’t be true.’
‘Why not?’ The words seemed forced out against Sald
en’s will.
‘Because in that case your wife would have been traced. A woman can’t just disappear, leaving a child behind her … No, I’m afraid you’ve been badly deceived.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That your wife was desperate enough at that time to have been driven to take far more drastic action than that. Naturally she wouldn’t have told her mother the truth.’
‘You’re trying to tell me you have proof that Clare is … dead?’
Thanet said nothing.
‘No!’ said Salden. ‘That’s not true! There’s some mistake! She left her, I know she did. In the foyer of a hospital, where she would be found and looked after.’
The fear that Thanet could be right had made Salden throw discretion to the winds. Even now he did not realise that he had betrayed himself.
It was essential to press on without allowing Salden time to think. Hating himself, Thanet said, ‘Where was this? In the town where you were living?’
‘No. She wanted to get right away. She couldn’t risk leaving her anywhere in Bradford, she afraid she might be traced.’
‘Where, then?’
‘York. She caught a train to York. She’d heard it was a nice city, she said.’
She said?
They had him! There was only one possible occasion when Salden and Marcia might have discussed this subject: after he had seen his mother-in-law on Tuesday night.
‘Who said? Your mother-in-law?’
‘No! Marcia! My wife. She told me herself and I believed her.’
‘When?’ said Thanet softly. ‘When did she tell you?’
Salden opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. His face betrayed the fact that he knew he had given himself away.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘So what happened then?’ said Joan. ‘Here, mash these potatoes, will you, while I do the sauce?’
Thanet took the saucepan, added margarine, black pepper, milk. With two cooks in the house you couldn’t help learning something.
‘He just caved in, confessed.’
‘He needn’t have, of course.’
‘Why not? He’d given himself away, hadn’t he?’
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