False Accusations: Nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide... (Willowgrove Village Mystery Book 1)

by Cora Harrison

  ‘You think she’ll remember what to say?’ Flora supposed she shouldn’t be listening to any of this, but it was an extreme case.

  ‘She’ll remember all right.’ Jenny sounded confident. ‘She’d die to be a film actress; she’s always wanted to do that. I wanted to be an international spy — Ratty and I used to go crawling around the village, wriggling on our stomachs behind hedges, investigating dodgy characters. We had a tin of talcum powder, I remember, and we used to sprinkle it on cars to get fingerprints off them; but Rosie always stuck to wanting to be a film actress. Funny, isn’t it? It all seems a very long time ago, now.’

  Chapter 24

  ‘One step at a time,’ Flora told herself severely when after a night of fitful sleep, she rose and had a bath. She had a sick feeling in her stomach. Jenny had done her part; now it was up to her. If she failed, then Rosie might be charged and perhaps convicted. Who knew what would happen then. Once the process began, it might be impossible to stop it. There was no doubt in Flora’s mind that even four or five years in prison would utterly destroy Rosie. If that happened, or even if the girl was in serious danger of that, well then there was no choice: the real murderer had to be revealed. By now she thought that she had a good notion of who that was.

  She would have to be tactful, forceful and persuasive today, Flora told herself. She dug out some new make-up, and even added a little rouge, then selected a nice summer suit from the wardrobe. She, as well as Rosie, had to look her best today for these two detectives. It was a change to dress up, as these days, since retiring, she tended to live in casual clothing.

  Rosie, anyway, was going to look wonderful and as her ‘chaperone’, Flora would have to play her part. With a slight smile on her lips, Flora went down to the back of the garden, where the car was parked and started it, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. She was going to be too early, but Flora set off, telling herself that she could always pass thirty minutes in the bookshop in Brocklehurst.

  She was half way down the busy three-lane motorway to Brocklehurst when she felt a bumpiness. For a moment she thought that she had just gone over a rough patch on the road, but instinctively she slowed the car down, putting her foot on the brake. That was a mistake. Suddenly the car span around. Flora felt her heart hammering, though she was strangely calm. That’s it, she thought. Well, we all have to go sometime. She had a moment’s anguish about Simon, but nothing could be done. It felt as if the steering wheel had been detached from the car. There was no way that she could haul that car back onto the slow lane. There was an explosion of horn blowing, which oddly, seemed very far away, and then, in what seemed like slow motion, the car wandered across the fast lane, struck the central barrier and then stopped, its bumper jammed securely into the steel bar. There was a sound of splintering glass. Instinctively Flora shut her eyes, put one arm in front of her face and cowered back against the headrest.

  And then there was nothing.

  No sounds, no feelings, just blankness.

  Flora took her arm down and stared around in bewilderment. The traffic noises had begun again. She sat as if in a roadside restaurant, watching the cars flow past. The windscreen was uninjured; it must have been the headlights that had been broken. Flora moved her legs and arms, all functioning, and wondered what to do next. She had ended up in the fast lane, facing the wrong way, back towards Willowgrove. The cars going to Brocklehurst were dodging around her, still going at high speed.

  And then Flora realised that this section of the outer lane had been cordoned off by a long line of colourful red and white plastic bollards. Road works! She remembered seeing the men putting them out the day before when she was on her way home. Flora thought about getting out, but decided that she might be safer where she was. Though not in an exactly desirable position, she was relatively secure for the moment, so she stayed in the car and wondered what to do next. A few of the cars that passed flashed their lights and she wondered if that meant they were annoyed or whether it meant that they would send help.

  It seemed a long time, but it was probably only a few minutes, before there was the familiar siren sound. The police were on their way. Flora struggled to remember what had happened.

  ‘The steering went,’ she said to the cheerful-looking young officer who came to the window of the car. He stuck in a long arm, waggled the steering wheel and then walked all the way around.

  ‘The steering’s OK; your rear tyre blew,’ he said, coming back to the window.

  ‘Oh.’ Flora didn’t feel capable of doing anything.

  ‘We’d better get you off the road and across to the hard shoulder,’ he said.

  She wondered how they would do that, but didn’t feel energetic enough to enquire.

  ‘We’ll change the wheel for you,’ he said. Another policeman joined him and gave her a cheerful ‘thumbs up’ sign. The boot of the car snapped open, and then the car was tilted up at an odd angle. She should, perhaps, get out, make herself helpful, but her legs were like jelly.

  Instead she spent the time mentally composing letters to The Times along the lines of ‘Aren’t Our British Police Wonderful?’. Another police car approached, pulled into the lay by and Jim Prior got out. He and another policeman set out some more bollards, funnelling the cars into one lane and then he came across to where Flora sat, cocooned against the traffic by her red and white cones.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Morgan?’ He peered into the car.

  ‘I’m fine, but I don’t know what happened to the car. Perhaps I went over something.’

  ‘Come and have a look at this tyre,’ said the first policeman to Jim. Flora could see them in the mirror. Jim had taken the tyre in his hands and he was turning it around and around. Then he was back again.

  ‘You get your car serviced at Cradduck’s don’t you, Mrs Morgan?’

  She nodded. Despite her brave words to him, she was feeling a little shaky. He crossed the road and she saw him speak into his car phone and then the other policeman was standing at the window.

  ‘Do you feel able to get out?’ he enquired.

  ‘Of course,’ Flora said briskly, but was glad of his supporting hand.

  ‘Just sit in the passenger seat, Mrs Morgan.’ He steered her around and held the door open to her car while she got in and automatically pulled out the seat belt. He waited patiently while she made three attempts to lock it into position. Then he himself got into the driving seat, switched on the engine, twirled the steering wheel a couple of times then, with a spectacular, high speed, three-hundred and forty degree turn, he had them safely over on the hard shoulder in forty seconds, neatly flanked by both police cars.

  Arthur Cradduck, driving his pickup van, arrived five minutes later. His face was grim and angry as he slammed the door and marched up to them. An honest man; Flora had always liked him and trusted him, but one with a temper.

  ‘What’s this about a dodgy tyre,’ he demanded, facing up to the tall policeman, patches of red on his cheeks and his eyes sparking under their heavy brows.

  ‘See for yourself.’ The first policeman held out the wheel with its deflated tyre.

  Mr Cradduck snatched it from him and then his face changed. He turned it over and over in his hands and then looked at Flora and the policeman.

  ‘I never put no tyre like that on this car,’ he said. ‘Mrs Morgan, have you had a new tyre put on recently at some other garage.’

  ‘No,’ Flora answered with some surprise; she had been going to Cradduck’s garage for the last fifteen years. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

  ‘That’s a lethal tyre,’ he said, giving it an angry look. ‘That’s one of those cheap tyres that’s supposed to have a tube in it. I would never put nothing like that on any car, let alone yours. You never penny-pinch over tyres; you always have the best.’

  ‘And there is no tube in it,’ said the policeman dryly. ‘You’re sure that you didn’t just put it on as a stop-gap and forget about it.’

  ‘There’s no way that any decent g
arage would put this tyre on and not make sure that it had an inner tube.’ Flora thought Mr Cradduck would explode in a minute.

  ‘So you’d swear you didn’t fit this tyre, Sir?’

  Mr Cradduck gave the police officer a furious glance and then turned back to Flora. ‘Mrs Morgan, when was the last time that you brought your car into me for a service?’

  ‘Oh, goodness.’ Flora tried to think and then reached into her car and took out her diary. It was fairly pristine, these days, so she found the date quickly.

  ‘April 20th,’ she said, trying to sound efficient, while her legs still trembled and a nerve plucked at the corner of her eye.

  ‘There you are!’ Mr Cradduck sounded triumphant. ‘Now have a look at this tyre, officer.’ He made the word ‘officer’ sound offensive, as he thrust the dusty tyre under the policeman’s nose. ‘You can see for yourself that this is a brand-new tyre.’ He kept moving the tyre a little closer to the man. ‘And what’s more that’s not the right wheel either; that’s not a Ford wheel. Someone came along with this, Mrs Morgan, and swapped it for your own front tyre. If you came to my garage with that car,’ his voice rose, ‘a tyre like this, with no tube in it and mounted on the wrong wheel, I would say to you, take that tyre to the police, Mrs Morgan; someone is trying to kill you.’

  There was a dead silence and then a roaring in Flora’s ears. The traffic, Flora told herself. Luckily the policeman had left the door of the car open and she quickly sat down on the driver’s seat.

  ‘More likely some sneak thief wanted to get rid of a dodgy wheel.’ The policeman’s voice was contemptuous.

  ‘I left my car parked for a couple of hours in Brocklehurst yesterday.’ Flora tried to make her voice brisk and matter-of-fact. She didn’t like to add that it had been right outside the police station.

  ‘That was probably it, then,’ said the policeman lugubriously. ‘There’s a lot of crime around in Brocklehurst.’

  ‘That won’t wash,’ said Mr Cradduck harshly. ‘Look at that tyre. Look at the little titty bits on the rubber. Go on; look at them. Tell me what they mean.’

  They looked in silence. Jim came and joined them, peering interestedly over Mr Cradduck’s shoulder.

  ‘Go on,’ repeated Mr Cradduck. ‘You’re motorway police, you should know what they mean.’ He sounded most worked up, like an angry schoolteacher.

  ‘You tell me,’ said the policeman guardedly.

  ‘I’ll tell you all right; they mean that this tyre is fresh from whatever factory made it. And I’ll tell you something more. There’s no chance in hell that this tyre did twenty miles yesterday and four miles this morning. The most that a tyre, with these bits on it, could have done is three to four miles. You ask anyone you like and they’ll tell the same.’

  ‘We’ll make enquiries,’ said the motorway policeman woodenly. Flora saw Jim Prior give a quick and a worried glance at her. He was probably convinced by Mr Cradduck; everyone at Willowgrove Village had a great opinion of their garage man.

  ’ Mr Cradduck came back over to Flora. ‘You all right there, Mrs Morgan,’ he said with concern. ‘You need to get back home and have a nice cup of tea. You can ride with me in the pickup lorry if you like.’

  ‘I’ll take Mrs Morgan home,’ said Jim and Mr Cradduck gave a nod of approval.

  ‘He’s a good driver. Done an advanced driving course, haven’t you, Jim? He’ll take you home, Mrs Morgan.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Flora said, trying to sound strong-willed and in control. She looked with horror at her watch. ‘I’m due at the police station in Brocklehurst in five minutes. Could you take me there, Jim?’

  ‘Now, don’t you talk such silly rot,’ expostulated Mr Cradduck. He was always very kind to Flora, especially since John died, treating her ignorance of cars with a gallant sympathy and caring for her Ford Cortina as if it were his own. ‘You come back with me, and Muriel will make you a nice cup of tea. Don’t you worry about all this; let the police sort it out.’

  ‘I have to go to the police station.’ And then when he looked as if he was going to argue, ‘It’s Rosie,’ she said in a low voice. The protective note in his voice had suddenly made her feel close to tears. ‘I must be there for Rosie.’

  Mr Cradduck nodded then. Like the rest of the village, he had a great fondness for Rosie.

  ‘I think that, if you feel up to it, Mrs Morgan, I would like you to accompany us to Brocklehurst Station just to make a statement about this incidence,’ the policeman said.

  ‘Mrs Morgan is due at Brocklehurst Police Station just now,’ put in Jim quietly to the other policeman. ‘She is acting as an appropriate adult for a young lady there.’

  ‘I see. Well, we can take a statement afterwards. In the meantime we can look at where you keep your car parked overnight. Would you be happy for someone to do this, Mrs Morgan?’

  There was nothing Flora could say but yes. She wasn’t happy, though. It was a terrible feeling to think that someone in the village, might, perhaps, have tried to kill her.

  Chapter 25

  The two detectives were there, sitting in the interview room, talking in low voices when Sergeant Dawkins ushered Flora in.

  ‘Detective Inspector O’Reilly and Detective Inspector Robinson, Mrs Morgan.’ Sergeant Dawkins made the introductions in his usual lugubrious monotone and they both stood up politely.

  Expensive suits, she noticed, intelligent-looking also. Perhaps the pick of the force went into the Murder Squad.

  ‘Sorry I’m a little late,’ Flora said, noticing with pleasure how composed and business-like her voice was. Jim, bless him, had driven at high speed and deposited her directly at the front door of the police station.

  ‘You’re fine.’ Inspector O’Reilly pulled out a chair with a pleasant smile. ‘I don’t know how anyone gets through the traffic in this town.’ He was a tall, dark-haired young man with those very navy blue eyes that you get with black hair in Ireland. He spoke with an English accent, though: a neutral, home-counties sound so he was probably second-generation.

  Inspector Robinson was a burly, rugby-playing type with a ginger moustache and brown hair, and a harsh, midlands accent. ‘Rough’ and ‘Smooth’, that would be the roles they played, Flora thought, remembering all of the detective stories that she had read. Well, he needn’t try any bullyboy tactics on her; she smiled to herself at the thought of how she would put him in his place if he attempted that.

  Suddenly Flora began to feel a lot better. She would pit her wits against these two men; she would do her best for Rosie. After all, that was what she was here for. It wasn’t up to her to solve this murder. No more Miss Marple business, she told herself firmly as she beamed at the two detectives and said, in answer to Sergeant Dawkins’ query that she would love a cup of tea.

  It was P.C. Markham who brought the tea. No doubt she had been demoted to that after her misdemeanour of leaving Rosie alone in the room. Flora thanked her effusively and she smiled gratefully in return. Flora thought about slipping her one of those government leaflets about ‘Bullying in the Workplace’ — there had been had a spate of them issued just before she retired.

  ‘So, you’ve been a headmistress,’ said Inspector O’Reilly, interrupting her thoughts. He pushed the sugar across to his partner but didn’t take any himself. He tasted the tea and then set it aside. He was probably a coffee drinker, Flora thought. However, he was better off without the coffee they served in Brocklehurst Police Station; she had tried it once and never again.

  ‘Yes, for twenty years,’ she said pleasantly, rescuing the sugar bowl from Inspector Robinson and adding a spoonful to her tea. She hated sugary drinks, but the tea was so awful she didn’t suppose it would make too much difference. Sugar was supposed to be good for shock.

  ‘And you actually taught this young girl, is that right?’ Obviously they had worked it out that ‘Mr-Nice-Guy’ would do the preliminary questioning.

  ‘That’s right, I had Rosie for seven years, right throug
h her time in primary school. And, of course, as I live in the same village, I’ve seen quite a bit of her since then, as well.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell us a little bit about the girl before we meet her.’

  Flora was ready for this, had rehearsed it in fact, but pretended to hesitate, to look for the right words. She finished her tea, schooling her face not to grimace, then put her mug down and turned towards them like one who has decided to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  ‘I first met Rosie about six months before she came to school,’ she began. ‘I could tell at once that she was a child with great learning difficulties, but she was very gentle and well-behaved. She continued to talk about intelligence quotients, psychiatrists’ reports. Neither of them interrupted to ask questions so the lecture flowed on, just as she had rehearsed it, just as if she were back addressing a crowd of student teachers.

  She told them how fond the other children in the school were of Rosie; how she loved to please and how she continually brought little presents to everyone of small bunches of flowers, a sweet, or even something bought from the village shop with her own pocket money. ‘She has a great desire to be loved, to be praised,’ Flora finished. ‘If she were asked a question she would always search your face to see what might be an answer that would please you.’

  She stopped there. This would be a good note to finish on. She looked from face to face. Inspector Robinson had been making notes and now he threw down the pencil with an air of one who flings down a gauntlet. Inspector O’Reilly sat back.

  ‘And temper tantrums? That would be usual with kiddies suffering from learning difficulties?’ He had purposely made his voice harsh and aggressive and Flora gave him a disapproving glance.

  ‘Oddly enough, in my experience,’ Flora laid emphasis on the word ‘experience’; ‘highly intelligent young children are more prone to temper tantrums.’ She looked straight into his eyes and he was the first to look away. ‘I think of all the children in that age group, that Rosie was the most even-tempered, gentle, sweet-natured child,’ she continued. ‘If someone upset her she cried. Tears rather than tantrums were the problem with her. She was very sensitive.’