‘What row?’
‘The row when you hit her.’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘The bruises?’
‘Yes,’ I said as crisply as a headmistress. He walked across to the window, pulled the net curtain to one side and stared out on to the garden. ‘After our son died,’ he said quietly, ‘Jenny began to sleepwalk. She didn't admit it to anyone at work. She was afraid they would recommend tranquillizers. She was always bumping into things. I think she looked for him at night – well, her subconscious did. I've never hit her.’
I didn't see Hubert again till late Monday afternoon. He looked a little flustered but it didn't register until later.
‘How was your picnic?’ I asked him.
‘Fine. Fine.’ He stared around my office for a moment as if I had a man stashed away somewhere.
‘What's wrong, Hubert?’
He gave me an anguished ‘God help me' sort of look and slumped down in the chair. ‘You were right,’ he said miserably.
About what?’ I was completely confused.
‘About Danielle.’
‘Oh.’
‘She is a man. She's on some sort of probationary period living as a woman and then they'll … operate.’
‘Do you really like her?’
‘Him!’
‘Do you really like him?’
‘I'm sacking him. He got the job under false pretences. He tricked me.’
‘I suppose that's the idea of living as a woman. Trickery's the name of the game until surgeons can make it legitimate.’
‘Huh! I feel such a fool.’
‘Danielle makes a good woman. I mean, she has got a woman's bone structure and good legs.’ I didn't mention the Adam's apple. ‘It was an accident of nature, that's all.’ Hubert wasn't convinced. He sat sulky and unresponsive.
‘You have to admit, Hubert, she's a capable receptionist and the clients like her. Can you really sack someone for being genetically disadvantaged?’
‘I'll think about it,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But I don't want to talk about it any more.’
I made us both a strong coffee, ladled in the sugar for Hubert and offered him my last two chocolate biscuits. He ate them both without a twinge of conscience.
‘I've got some good news,’ I said cheerfully, trying to raise his spirits above the level of his socks.
‘I've got a new client. Geoff Martin has agreed I should carry on investigating the death of his wife.’
He looked up from his mug of coffee and fixed me with one of his most practised baleful expressions.
‘It might be very short lived, Kate. I've heard the police are ready to arrest someone for both murders.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘Confessed! I don't believe it.’ He might just as well have told me the Tories had embraced Maastricht's Social Chapter.
‘It's true,’ he said, with his first upturn of his mouth that day, and I swear he experienced some perverse delight in telling me. ‘Some bloke from the college. He's definitely confessed. And although the police think he's a head case, they are taking it seriously. It seems he knows more about the two women than a mere amateur confessor.’
‘I'll ring DS Roade, perhaps he'll tell me more. I still don't believe it.’
Picking up the phone I gave Hubert a somewhat stony stare. He took the hint and moved to the door reluctantly. I felt a bit peeved that I heard so much news second and usually third hand. While the phone rang I reasoned that it was in the nature of the job. I mean I was hardly likely to be anywhere just at the right moment but that didn't stop me wanting to be sometimes first in the queue for information.
DS Roade wasn't in his office but Inspector Hook was. Inspector Hook has a face like a day in February, dresses in a symphony of grey and regards me as some sort of irritating but mild condition like haemorrhoids. I tried to disguise my voice but he hadn't made it to inspector by being stupid and the moment I asked for DS Roade he knew.
‘Yes. Miss Kinsella,’ he said with February in his voice as well. His ‘yes' was a ‘Yes, what the hell do you want?’ so I mumbled a bit and then said, ‘I'm working for Mr Martin now and I'd heard that …’
‘You heard someone had confessed,’ he interrupted.
‘Yes.’
‘Someone has. He's still being interviewed.’ His voice stayed firmly in the February mode.
‘Inspector Hook, in your considered and experienced opinion, did this man do it?’
Hook sighed down the phone and eventually said, ‘I don't know.’ ‘Could you tell me something about him?’ ‘No.’ ‘I'm worried he could be my uncle.’ ‘Well, if he is I'm sure your auntie will let you know.’
‘She's dead.’
‘Miss Kinsella, you're wasting my time.’
‘Call me Kate.’
‘Get off the phone, Kate.’
‘Give me a clue, please.’
‘Find your own clues.’
‘I could start a rumour, ring the press.’
Silence.
‘Shall I come to the station?’ I asked. There was a long pause whilst he thought about that but I could hear him breathing and from the sound of it I guessed I was gradually wearing him down.
‘OK. A tip and that's all. Do your own sleuthing. Dunsmore College. Goodbye.’ My profuse thanks went unheard as the phone slammed down.
I made a deduction from that. One, the man was from Longborough because otherwise the Dunsmore CID would have been involved. And two, his confession wasn't kosher. If it had been Hook would have sounded more April than February.
By now it was nearly seven. I could make my way to Dunsmore Adult Education College just in time for the start of classes. Surely there I would find something out and I could talk to Bill again.
I parked alongside Bill's bungalow and then knocked at the door. Bill's wife answered. She looked older than him and where he was round she was thin and slightly stooped. Her hair was a silvery grey, thinning at the temples, her mouth, set on a downward turn, matched her eyes, which also drooped and their bluey tinge stared at me suspiciously. As I explained who I was and that I'd come to see Bill she smiled, which lifted some of the droop. ‘Come in, dear. Bill's out. I've been wanting to talk to someone. Things have been getting on my nerves lately.’
We walked through to the front room of the bungalow. The windows were closed and it smelt warm and musty with overtones of lamb casserole. The television was on loudly and a partially knitted sweater lay on the tan-coloured sofa with its cream lace arm covers and matching antimacassars.
‘You'll have a coffee, won't you, dear?’
I nodded. Mrs Stone left the room and I noticed her ankles were swollen and she wore her slippers with the heels out. In a few minutes she returned with a mug of coffee. I sipped it; it was hot, creamy and sweet and made with a substance beloved by elderly ladies who shop at the Co-op. It tasted vile.
Mrs Stone switched off the TV, sat down and picked up the piece of knitting, examined it carefully, then fumbled under a cushion and brought out a pair of knitting needles and more wool. She began to cast on. After a while she said, ‘I'm glad you've come.’
‘Why's that?’
‘My Bill makes things very difficult.’
‘In what way?’
Mrs Stone continued casting on. ‘That night,’ she said.
‘Which night?’
‘The night that poor Jenny Martin was killed.’
‘Yes?’
‘Bill lied. He didn't see anything. Not a thing.’
‘Why did he say he did?’
Mrs Stone paused in her casting on. ‘He's getting older you see, and tired and lazy if the truth be told. He locked up when the classes had finished. Checked everything like he always does. Then he had a bite to eat and went to his bedroom and watched a video. He has some old war films he likes to watch over and over again. We've got separate rooms see and he doesn't do any more checks after that. He likes to say he does. He's frightened.’
‘Of what?’
> ‘Of losing his job. He's well over sixty and he wants to stay on as long as possible. You won't tell the police all this, will you? Because I'm only telling you because I can't live with it. I mean if the murderer is out there—’ She broke off to point with a knitting needle towards the college, ‘he could come back, couldn't he?’
‘So Bill didn't make that late check and he didn't see the tall man in black.’
She shook her head. ‘I doubt it very much. He always gets up early in the morning and walks round and he did find the vomit. There were no cars left then in the car park as far as I know. Poor Bill is frightened that the education authorities will blame him. To be honest he's scared of going out late at night. We do get bikers speeding round and a few drunks.’
‘Did you hear or see anything?’
Mrs Stone smiled. ‘No, dear. I watched television and then I went to bed. Although I did hear something earlier, I suppose it was about seven thirty, usually it's quiet by then because the classes have started. I went outside to see if I could catch any slugs and I heard women's voices – they were laughing. Then I heard a vehicle driving off. I think they were by the entrance but I didn't see anything.’
‘Did you think that was odd?’
Mrs Stone gave a slight shrug. ‘Not really. You'd be amazed what goes on here. Once Bill caught a couple having sex in the bushes and another time a van drove in and a few minutes later someone stole two computers from the college – you'd really be amazed.’
I agreed that I would. ‘Have you heard someone at the college has confessed to the murders?’
‘I did hear that, yes. Bill's seen him around. He says he's a creepy type always trying to tag along behind the women. It makes sense, doesn't it. Probably a pervert.’
‘If I find Bill could I ask him about this man?’
‘Oh … well, I'm not sure. You won't mention what I've told you, 'cos he'll stick to that story through thick and thin. I think he believes it himself.’
I thanked her and left. I found Bill eventually, trying one of the fire-doors. He looked a little sheepish as if I'd caught him doing something he shouldn't.
‘I have to check and double check,’ he said dolefully. ‘These students may be adults but you have to watch them.’
‘It's about one of the students I want to ask you.’
‘Fire away,’ he said with a relieved smile.
‘You've heard all about the man who confessed to the murders?’ He nodded. ‘Tell me about him, will you? It really would be a great help.’
Bill scratched his forehead then rested his hand on the firedoor. ‘Where shall I start?’ he muttered. ‘He's a short bloke, thin, balding but not that old – late thirties, I don't think he's married. He followed the women around like a puppy dog. One or two of the younger women complained but the older women just ignored him. He only came to two classes a week but he always seemed to be hanging around.’
‘Did he speak to Jenny and Teresa – did he seem friends with them?’
Bill shook his head. ‘I've no idea, me duck, but your best bet is to ask someone in the canteen.’
Before I left Bill I was determined to get a clearer idea of what he did see that night. I didn't suggest to him he might have fabricated evidence but I wasn't sure either that his wife knew exactly where Bill was every minute especially if they had separate rooms. ‘Tell me again, Bill, about that night. You have a marvellous memory and your evidence could be vital.’
He looked pleased about that. ‘It was like I said. I heard voices and I saw them standing by the red car …’
‘How exactly were they standing, Bill?’ He stared at me for a moment, blankly. ‘How close – snuggling up, at arm's length like strangers?’
He closed his eyes. ‘I'm trying to remember,’ he said. ‘They were close.’
‘How close?’ I persisted.
‘Her head was on his shoulder.’
‘And they were talking? Loudly, softly?’
‘Well … er. Yes.’
‘You don't sound very sure.’
Bill looked puzzled. ‘Funny you should ask about that.’
‘Why?’
‘I've only just thought about it. I looked out of the window and told you I heard voices didn't I?’ I nodded.
‘I think I might have made a mistake. Now I think back, see, I can remember it more clearly. I only heard the one voice – a man's voice.’
I looked at him searchingly. ‘Did you hear anything of what he said?’
Bill shook his head. ‘No, sorry, me duck.’
‘And the time, Bill? And how many cars?’
‘Two cars. There were two.’
‘And earlier?’
‘Now look, I know you're only doing your job but all these questions are getting me down. I've told you there were two cars and that was all I saw.’
‘Yes, Bill, but what about when you locked up at nine thirty; were there two cars then?’
By now Bill looked flustered and I knew then he wasn't sure. If the other classes had finished at nine thirty and Bill had been prompt at locking up there might well have been the odd tardy student with a car still there. Bill had made it seem so definite – two cars left behind – two cars there at midnight. But of course that wasn't the case. Jenny and Teresa were alive from seven until at least midnight. One or both cars would have left that night and one contained Jenny – dying.
‘Just one more question, Bill. Did the man by the car with the woman see you?’
Bill's mouth slackened open and he drew in his breath. ‘I don't know about that. He might've done. That's very possible.’ He looked suitably concerned and I knew then he was telling the truth about what he saw. But what had woken him was not voices, because I was sure he'd been asleep and low voices would never have woken him, though the sound of a car boot closing would. A harsh metallic sound in the quiet of the night. Then he'd heard voices and looked out the window. What he'd seen, I believed, was a man putting on a show for Bill's eyes, because in his arms he'd held a corpse – ready for the second car boot.
I thanked Bill and he couldn't disguise his relief that I was finally satisfied. He smiled half-heartedly at me and resumed testing the fire-doors.
Eventually I found the canteen although the only food and drink was from vending machines and the green Formica tables and chairs remained forlornly empty for over half an hour. When a few students began coming in and searching for change I watched as they avoided all the middle tables, finding instead those nearest the walls.
After a while I approached a table of three middle-aged women who looked as if they might be calligraphists. They weren't. One, a plump woman wearing jeans and a crochet top with glasses on a golden cord that rested on her ample bosom, told me she'd done calligraphy last year but this year was doing art. I asked her if she had known Jenny and Teresa. She told me she knew them by sight. She also knew ‘Creeping Joe'. His name was Joseph Barnstable and he had tried to latch on to her and her friends but had been cold-shouldered.
‘The man was really creepy. He told everyone he was a keen bird-watcher but we thought he was more interested in watching other things with his binoculars.’ The other two women nodded in agreement.
‘Did he ever talk to Jenny and Teresa?’ I asked.
‘Not exactly,’ said one of the women. ‘But he did always sit near them and did try to engage them in conversation. They were a nice couple and they were always polite to him. Mind you, I can't believe he murdered them even though he has confessed. Far too much of a coward, I would think – wouldn't say boo to a goose type.’
I left the group to their plastic cups of tea and coffee and drove back to Longborough. I was convinced now that Joseph Barnstable was no more a suspect than Bella the lavatory attendant, but had he seen anything that night? Had he been creeping around the college grounds?
At some point I reasoned both cars were outside the college and it would have been sensible to go wherever they were going in one car. Where to, though? Jenny lived
quite near but her husband was at home. If they'd decided to go back to Teresa's home in Longborough then surely they would have taken two cars. Could they have gone there? Or to someone who would have welcomed a visitor. Alan Dakers? Maybe. Or Dr Amroth? Was he alone that night? If they'd gone to a pub the police would have found that out. But to a private house? Not necessarily, and who was going to admit it even if they had?
I wondered whether it might be worth going to Teresa's house. The police would have removed any vital evidence but maybe I'd find something. Two women can't just disappear for nearly five hours and then turn up dead. But they had and they did. For a kidnapping it was short by any standard. And they hadn't been sexually assaulted. So where the hell had they gone?
Two days went past before I heard any more and if I was going to do any breaking and entering to get a peek at Teresa's house I'd need Hubert as lookout and he seemed either very busy or he was trying to avoid me.
It was Hubert though who told me the latest news on ‘Creeping Joe'. He'd been released – after only a few hours – on bail on a charge of wasting police time. Police questioning had soon revealed that anything he knew about Jenny and Teresa had been gleaned by eavesdropping in the canteen at the college. Now it was common knowledge that Jenny had planned to move in with Teresa.
‘Poor Geoff,’ I murmured.
‘Do you think they were lesbians?’ asked Hubert, his brown eyes sparkling with interest.
‘No, I don't. I think they just wanted to be together for mutual support.’
He didn't look too convinced. ‘What exactly do lesbians do?’ he asked.
‘I don't know, Hubert. Why do you ask?’
‘Just interest,’ he mumbled.
‘I'll tell you what, there is one way we could find out.’
His eyes continued to sparkle so I knew I was on to a winner. But by the time I'd outlined my plan for sneaking into Teresa's house, his expression had changed. ‘This is one of your dodgiest ideas yet. The police could be watching the house.’
‘Come off it. Where's your sense of adventure?’
He continued to frown. ‘What do you hope to find out?’
I smiled, patted his hand. ‘That, Hubert, I won't know until I get in the house.’
Deadly Practice Page 14