Until, apparently, the day he died, when he’d tried to contact her.
‘Yes, thanks for phoning, Janet. And my apologies about that ghost business.’
*
The subject of Makepeace’s death dominated the conversation over lunch.
‘Do you think it really was him who phoned last night?’ Stephen asked. ‘Perhaps it was a hoax, someone doing it for a bet.’
Sheila frowned. ‘Why on earth should it be a hoax?’
‘Well, he’s never even acknowledged your existence, has he? Why, suddenly, should he phone you?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘What really happened, Mum, all those years ago?’ Stephen helped himself to more pie, totally unaware of his mother’s discomfiture. ‘There were three of them, weren’t there? Grandad and Mr Makepeace and that Mr Vernon, who disappeared?’
She nodded.
‘But what started it all?’
‘Oh, they’d been rivals since schooldays, taking it in turns to be top of the class.’
‘But it must have been more than that,’ Stephen objected, ‘for them to stop speaking to each other.’
‘Not necessarily,’ his mother said thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes the worst quarrels are over the most trivial things. If the people involved are stubborn, no one’ll give way so it’s never patched up.’
‘But—’
‘That’ll do, Stephen,’ Colin interposed. ‘You know it’s not a topic we discuss.’
‘Not while Gran and Grandad were alive, but—’
‘I said that’ll do. Now, get on with your meal, will you? We’ve a delivery at two.’
*
It wasn’t until DCI Webb reached his flat that evening that he glanced at the paper he’d bought on the way home. But as he dropped it on the kitchen table his eye fell on the photograph displayed on the front page and, registering the headline, he gave an exclamation. LOCAL LANDOWNER DIES, he read, his eyes racing down the paragraph.
The body of Mr William Makepeace, 78, of Longacre Farm, Erlesborough, was recovered from the Avon & Broadshire Canal this morning, after his wife had reported him missing.
Mr Makepeace had spent the evening at the Farmers’ Club and had set off as usual to walk home along the towpath. An inquest will be held tomorrow morning.
Born at Longacre Farm, where he still lived...
Webb turned abruptly from the table and poured himself a drink. Quite suddenly he had need of it. After a couple of almost medicinal sips he returned, glass in hand, to the story. So old Billy was dead. Reading between the lines, he’d probably had one too many, and the towpath was narrow for an unsteady gait.
He stood for several minutes staring at the strong, fleshy face in the photograph, wishing the canal had not been involved in the death; it had been an intrinsic part of his boyhood — a favourite place to fish or paddle or while away long hours watching the activity at the locks. And, as he grew older, to walk with old Makepeace’s daughter. Now, his memories of it would be tarnished.
Still, there it was; old Billy, the last of the three, was dead, and a less than edifying chapter finally closed. He stared unseeingly into his glass as memories he had always stifled stirred uneasily.
Thank God he was dining with Hannah this evening, he thought, turning away to refresh his drink; he would not have welcomed his own company. Leaving the paper spread on the table, he carried his glass through to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
*
‘Go easy on the hard stuff, love,’ he said an hour later, as Hannah moved to the drinks table. ‘I’m a couple ahead of you this evening.’
‘Really? Any particular reason?’
‘I’ve had a forced march down memory lane, which I could have done without.’
She handed him his glass, her clear grey eyes on his face. ‘What caused that?’
‘Tonight’s headline in the News. Old boy I used to know found dead.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
He nodded, accepting her sympathy but volunteering nothing further. After a moment he looked up, caught her considering gaze, and smiled.
‘Sorry to be such poor company. Tell me what you’ve been doing since I saw you.’
Though their flats were in the same building, the lives they led meant that weeks often passed without their seeing each other, an occurrence which, in the unique circumstances of their relationship, worried neither of them.
‘The big news is that Gwen’s been offered a year’s sabbatical in Canada. I’m green with envy.’
Gwen Rutherford was headmistress of Ashbourne School for Girls, one of the most highly regarded in the county, and Hannah was her deputy.
Webb gave a low whistle. ‘And you’ll hold the fort while she’s away?’
‘As acting head, yes. But I’d much rather go to Canada!’ He smiled sympathetically. Hannah’s parents had lived in Toronto for the last twenty years, and she seldom saw them. ‘Your turn next, perhaps. In the meantime, it’ll be quite a responsibility.’
She shrugged. ‘The governors will keep an eye on me.’ Webb was silent. One of the school governors, Charles Frobisher, had wanted to marry Hannah a few years back; for all Webb knew, he might still. Perhaps, in Gwen’s absence, they’d need to see more of each other.
‘When is she going?’
‘In September — only two months away. Another woman should have gone this year and Gwen was down for next, but now she’s dropped out and they’ve had to move things forward. You know Gwen, she’s flapping round like a mad hen, spraying hairpins and panicking about not getting things sorted out in time. In fact, there’s little to see to from the school’s point of view. We always work closely together, so there shouldn’t be any problems.’
‘Her mother lives with her, doesn’t she? Is she going too?’
‘No, it would be too much for her. She’ll spend the year with her other daughter.’
Webb sipped his drink, grateful for the distraction Hannah’s news had provided. ‘Whereabouts in Canada?’
‘The outskirts of Toronto, would you believe?’
‘There ain’t no justice.’
She put her glass down. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to the meal.’
As she left the room, Webb too rose and walked restlessly to the window, looking down on the brown grass and parched earth. Another hot summer was under way and everywhere lay baking under the remorseless sun. Near the house, patches of wet earth on the flowerbeds marked the progress of a conscientious gardener — probably Mrs Taverner from No. 3.
Even as her name came to mind she appeared beneath him, jug in hand, and made her way carefully over the grass to the birdbath. He watched as she filled it with clean water, totally absorbed in her task. Seen from above, she was a strange figure in her floral cotton dress and ancient straw hat, her scrawny legs ending in ankle socks and sandals. In different but equally eccentric gear she performed similar duties in winter, scattering seeds and crusts and ferociously chasing off any cat unwise enough to be lurking near.
Now, even before she’d reached the house, an assortment of starlings fluttered down and began to splash in the shallow basin, squawking and fighting for a share in the treat.
Behind him, Hannah’s voice said, ‘Dinner’s ready,’ and he turned to follow her into the dining-room.
Throughout the meal — chilled watercress soup, poached salmon, fresh raspberries — Webb responded to Hannah’s queries, volunteered snippets of news, and generally felt he was making a contribution to the evening. But over coffee she startled him by saying, ‘You’re still brooding over that old man’s death, aren’t you? Who was he?’
He looked up quickly, but her face was in shadow. The light had almost gone as the last glow of sunset faded from the sky, and the candle on the table illuminated only its polished surface.
‘Just an old farmer I knew years ago,’ he answered dismissively.
‘In Erlesborough?’
He nodded.
She reached for the
coffee-pot and refilled his cup. ‘David, why do you never speak of the past? I know you have a sister, because you spend Christmas with her, but any time I ask about her, or anything to do with your childhood, you very adroitly change the subject.’
‘I’d no idea I was so devious.’
‘On the contrary, I’m sure it’s quite deliberate.’
He moved restlessly, his fingers playing with the unused cutlery by his plate. ‘There’s little to tell. It wasn’t a particularly happy childhood, and I prefer not to think about it, that’s all.’
‘But this old man’s death has brought it back?’
‘Inevitably.’
She laughed, giving a little shrug of defeat. ‘All right, you win.’
‘It’s not particularly interesting,’ he said defensively. ‘I can’t think—’
He was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile phone. ‘Excuse me.’ He pushed back his chair and went out into the dark hallway where he’d left it.
‘DCI Webb.’
The Chief Superintendent’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘Spider. Sorry to disturb your evening, but we’ve been landed with a suspicious death. That old chap they pulled out of the canal. Report to me first thing, would you?’
He must have made some reply, because Fleming, satisfied, had rung off and a buzzing came over the line. The flickering candlelight from the open doorway lit a patch of carpet to pale rose and as he stared at it, Hannah’s cat walked gracefully across it and disappeared into the shadows beyond.
Webb sighed and put the phone down. It seemed that all his evasive action had been in vain. The past would have to be faced after all.
CHAPTER 2
They drove out to Erlesborough in silence. Sergeant Jackson, after one look at the Governor’s set face, decided it was best to hold his peace. He could have sworn he knew all Spiderman’s moods, but he was out of his depth on this one. All right, the Guv knew the victim, but so what? It wasn’t the first time it had happened — something of an occupational hazard — and anyway he didn’t seem to have seen him in years. So what was he so uptight about? With a mental shrug, Jackson settled down to his driving.
Erlesborough lay due west of Shillingham, some fifteen miles along the Oxbury road. It was a pleasant little market town, mainly Georgian in architecture but with roots going back to Roman times and beyond. A Benedictine abbey had once occupied the site and its ruins still stood in the gardens behind the High Street, a haven of peace and greenery only steps from the bustling market-place. Jackson knew it well from runs out with Millie and the children; knew, too, the canal to the south of the town, which figured in the present case.
The fields and woodlands through which they had been driving fell away behind them as they entered the outskirts of the town. To the left of the road stood the buildings and playing fields of St Anne’s School, traditional rivals of Shillingham’s Ashbourne. Then the road curved round past a large supermarket, new since Jackson’s last visit, and into the wide High Street where, on this Wednesday morning, the market was in full swing.
Jackson slowed down perforce, inching forward behind a string of cars, and beside him Webb stirred restlessly.
‘Silver Street first, Guv?’ Which was the address of the police station.
Webb grunted, which Jackson took to be assent. He turned left, thankfully leaving the mêlée of the High Street, and drove into the cobbled street which ended, some two hundred yards ahead, in a cul-de-sac. As he slowed down outside the tall, narrow building occupied by Broadshire Constabulary, Webb said abruptly, ‘There’s a car park behind, along the alleyway there.’
Moments later they were walking back down the alley to the front entrance of the police station, the sunshine warm on their heads and shoulders. The duty sergeant looked up as they pushed their way through the swing-doors.
‘DCI Webb and Sergeant Jackson to see DI Charlton. We’re expected.’
‘Yes, sir. One moment.’ He spoke into a telephone, and then, releasing the security door, signalled a young constable to take the visitors upstairs.
Detective-Inspector Charlton, a large, heavy-set man, rose to his feet and came round his desk to greet them. ‘Good morning, sir, Sergeant. Sorry to drag you over here, but as you’ll have heard, our DCI’s away on a course and this has turned into a major inquiry.’
Webb nodded and introduced Jackson. ‘So, what have we got?’
‘Well, to be honest, the PM findings were a shock. We never doubted it was anything but an accident. After all, Mr Makepeace was a well-known and respected figure in the town.’
‘Not the sort to get himself murdered?’ asked Webb drily.
The other man flushed. ‘You know what I mean, sir.’
‘The full report isn’t through, of course, but I gather there were unexplained pressure marks at the base of the skull.’
‘That’s correct. It’s believed his head was forcibly held under water.’
‘A fair bit of pressure would have been needed; he was a heavy man.’
‘Unless he was inhibited by the cold water, sir. And he’d been drinking, mind.’
‘No sign of a coronary?’
‘No, and that’s surprising, too. Had a bit of trouble with his ticker over the last year or two, did Mr Makepeace.’
‘Who found him?’
‘Mr Martin Allerdyce, sir. He’s a partner in Henshaw and Allerdyce, solicitors in the High Street. Lives out on the Oxbury road and walks to work along the towpath every morning. Here’s his statement.’
Charlton pushed some papers across the desk and Webb ran his eye rapidly over them. The body had been floating face down against the bank, just along from the railway bridge. Without looking up, he said, ‘You’ve seen his wife?’
‘Not since the PM. We heard you were coming and thought you’d want to see her yourself. She was shocked enough yesterday, poor soul, when it seemed accidental. We kept it as brief as possible.’ He paused, and when Webb didn’t comment, added, ‘The men are waiting for your orders, sir. As you’ll know, some of your own men have reported in, too.’
‘Yes; we can’t commandeer all your personnel, but we’ll need some for local knowledge. What about the scene?’
‘It’s still roped off, but the SOCOs have finished now.’
‘Right, thanks, Inspector. We’ll get on with the briefing, then.’
The Inspector led the way along the linoleumed corridor and pushed open a door at the far end. Jackson followed the two men, his unease growing. He’d worked closely with the DCI over a number of years, and today’s attitude was unprecedented; it was as though he were having to force himself to act in the manner expected of him.
The briefing did nothing to reassure Jackson, and glances he intercepted between the Shillingham men showed that they, too, were aware of undercurrents. His own overriding impression was that for some reason he couldn’t fathom, the Governor did not want to handle the case.
The facts as known were gone over, action teams set up and the next briefing arranged for five o’clock. Jackson sat throughout in unaccustomed gloom, paying attention but, affected by Webb’s attitude, not feeling part of the team.
As the meeting finished and the men dispersed, Webb beckoned him over. ‘Ken, it’s now eleven-thirty. I’d like you to go along to the solicitors and have a word with Mr Allerdyce. I imagine he’s clean, but we know how often murderers “find” bodies. The DI knows and respects the man; I need an unbiased opinion. After that, you might look in at the Farmers’ Club — it’s sure to be open on market day. Speak to the barman and get the names of those who were drinking with Makepeace, those who left at the same time — the usual guff. I have a few things to do so I’ll take the car and meet you at the Narrow Boat in an hour’s time.’
*
Webb came out of the swing-doors and turned towards the alleyway leading to the car park. Then, obeying an impulse, he passed the turning and walked on to the bottom of the street, which ended in a shoulder-high stone wall. He used to come here
after school with a crowd of other small boys; they’d sit on the wall eating chips and watching the movement of the barges on the canal below. At least outwardly, little seemed to have changed.
Resting his arms on the wall, he looked down the grassy bank to the water, serene and blue in the summer sunshine, and, beyond it, to the backs of houses giving on to Lower Road. One of them had been his childhood home, its attendant nursery garden spreading almost to the canal banks. But the rich soil which, during school holidays, he had helped his father to hoe, had long since been grassed over and was as dry and thirsty-looking as its neighbours. For a long moment he stared at it, unwelcome memories stirring. Then he forced his gaze back to the canal.
A couple of barges were moored beneath him, no doubt awaiting police permission to proceed. It would soon be granted; frogmen had already searched the bottom of the canal but found nothing relevant. Glancing to his right, he could see the Narrow Boat public house where he’d arranged to meet Jackson and, beyond it, the Bridge Street allotments.
But he was wasting time; there were things to be done and the sooner he made a start on them, the better. Turning away, he went to retrieve the car. Memories continued to buffet him as he winkled his way back into the traffic on the High Street and made his crawling progress past the Sandon Arms and the Town Hall. Then, reaching the end of the High Street, he joined the faster-moving traffic on the Oxbury road and it was only minutes before he was turning into the familiar gateway of The Old Farmhouse.
He parked the car and stood for a moment looking over the hedge at the Garden Centre. It seemed quite busy for a week day; people were hurrying in all directions with long flat trolleys loaded with plants, and several cars were waiting their turn to go through the gates.
But he hadn’t come here to stand and watch them. He walked purposefully to the house and rang the bell. Somewhere inside the dog barked. Then there was the sound of footsteps and his sister opened the door.
‘David!’
‘Hello, Sheila.’
Though they hadn’t seen each other since Christmas, they did not embrace. They’d never been a demonstrative family.
David Webb 10 - Three, Three, the Rivals Page 2