Wings over the Watcher

by Priscilla Masters

  But she knew he’d got the message.

  “Someone more glamorous,” Grove came up with. “Someone who has an adventurous life.”

  Joanna knew then. She just knew that Grove read spy thrillers.

  “Did you know anyone who might have disliked Mrs Pennington?”

  “No.” Grove stopped short and considered the question. “No. I can’t say as I do. She wasn’t the sort of person you’d take strong feeling against, if you see what I mean. She was easygoing. Pleasant, polite, private.”

  “Were you and she good friends?”

  “Oh yes.” Again the librarian stopped short. “Well – I mean – friends as colleagues of course.”

  No impropriety was what he was suggesting.

  “I think I see.” Korpanski was at it again, antagonising a potential witness.

  “You mean you had no – special friendship?”

  “Certainly not,” Grove said indignantly.

  “But you are divorced?”

  “I am. Through no fault of my own.”

  A prig too. “But Mrs Pennington was a happily married woman.”

  “Was she?”

  The rhetoric seemed to confuse Grove. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a Halloween fruit as he swallowed. “I’m sure she was,” he said. But there was a hint of doubt in his voice which both police picked up on.

  “Good.” Joanna treated him to one of her warmest smiles.

  “How long had you worked together?”

  “Around five years. We weren’t close, you understand, but we were friends.”

  “Did you go out socially ever?”

  “Only at the Christmas party.”

  “And were husbands and wives invited to that?”

  “No – we never do. I’m on my own and I think out of respect for my situation we decided a few years ago not to invite partners.”

  Grove was reminding Joanna even more of Arthur Pennington. The same pedantic and wordy way of speaking.

  “We usually go to Den Engels,” he added irrelevently.

  Den Engels, the Belgian Bar, good, plentiful food and wonderful beers. It was one of Matthew’s favourite eating/drinking holes. Joanna had a sudden vivid vision of him with a brown beer bottle in his hand, grinning and waving at her, shouting over the noise. She savoured the snapshot. It had been the venue of such happy nights.

  And again, she promised herself. Again. They will come again. A few more days and he would be home. But this silent promise was dangerous. It gave her a terrible impatience with this case. It should be simple. She should have arrested someone by now, charged them with the murder. This was not some complex case where an unknown psychopath had gone berserk. This was a simple domestic drama. Beatrice had known her killer, as he or she had known her. She had entered his or her car willingly, maybe smiled at her killer as she had faced him or her, possibly even continued to smile as the fingers had fastened around her throat and squeezed the life out of her before dumping her body under the hedge on the moors.

  So why hadn’t she found the killer?

  Answer:

  Because Beatrice had not been what she had seemed. She had led a very hidden life, concealed from everyone – even those who considered they knew her well and especially from her family. Beatrice had preserved her secrets to the grave and beyond. Only when they had exposed all the dark corners of her complex life would she know who had killed her.

  Beatrice had not confided in anyone – merely dropped the tiniest of hints to her friends who had not been curious enough to follow them up. So she had preserved her secrecy.

  Already, so early on in her interview of yet another of Beatrice’s colleagues she was aware of the blind tunnel ahead with no glimmer of light. So she fumbled and stumbled.

  “When did you last see Beatrice?”

  “The Saturday morning just before I left to go on holiday. I bumped into her shopping in Leek. She was in one of the shops along the street.”

  “Which one?” Joanna asked idly, more to keep the conversation moving than with any real interest.

  “That nice handbag shop halfway up Derby Street.”

  “I see. How did she seem?”

  “Her usual self.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Well – yes – apart from Mrs Pirtek – the lady who…”

  “Yes, I know she owns the shop and was a friend of Beatrice’s.”

  Grove looked at her expectantly, waiting for the next question. The trouble was Joanna couldn’t think of any other questions to ask Adrian Grove. He seemed pleasant, eager to please. Innocent was the word that sprang to mind. She couldn’t sense any evil lying beneath his bland exterior. Sense? She could practically hear Korpanski scoffing at this most unscientific instinct. Maybe it was time she stopped depending on it so much.

  They returned to the main library to speak to the two remaining librarians but even as they both looked up it all seemed too fantastic. Lisa Chorley was a young woman, attractive in her midriff-exposing jeans and t-shirt. She wore stud silver earrings, had long, silky dark hair. Joanna simply couldn’t imagine her having some sort of lesbian affair with the deceased.

  Maybe Kerry Beardmore was a more promising candidate.

  Kerry was a few years younger than Beatrice. Plump too, with an innocent, motherly face, kind and doughy. In fact from certain angles she could have been mistaken for her dead colleague. They settled down again in the staff room and for once Joanna didn’t quite know where to begin. She felt swamped with the idea that she was floundering blindly in a sticky bog. She looked helplessly at Mike. This was completely uncharacteristic but Korpanski, with surprising sensitivity, opened the interview.

  “Married, are you, love?”

  Joanna winced. Not quite her style of questioning. But it was better then nothing.

  “Yeah.” Kerry shared that same, eager-to-please expression with her friend.

  “Got kids?”

  You had to hand it to Korpanski – he had a certain blunt directness in the way he conducted his interviews.

  “I’ve got two. A daughter and a son who – well – he isn’t terribly well.”

  Joanna took over. “Sorry to hear that.”

  Kerry smiled. “Thanks. He’s a bit of a tie. I mean – I adore him. Love him to bits but sometimes – well – let’s just say, he’s difficult.”

  “I expect Beatrice was quite understanding about your son?”

  “She was.” No mistaking the warmth here. “She was really lovely about him. You see – lots of people just don’t understand. He comes out with things. But Beattie. Well – she took it all in his stride. She was a lovely person, you know. I mean – I’ve read in the papers just the bare bones of her life. The fact that she was married, worked here, had two children. It doesn’t describe her at all. She was wonderful. Very kind and generous.” Kerry’s eyes began to fill up. She sniffed and tugged a tissue from the pocket of her cardigan. “And she was so dedicated to the Readers’ Group. She was always looking for good books to introduce the readers to. Some classics, some bestsellers and other authors of whom no one had heard. That was such a special thing she did. And she never put anyone down. She’d always listen to their point of view.”

  Kerry’s face changed. “The thing was – people weren’t always so nice to her.”

  “Who do you mean?” Joanna asked curiously.

  “Her son and daughter for one thing. Never bothered remembering her birthday. And Mothers’ Day – well ‘forget it, K,’ she said to me. ‘I’d faint if I got a card or a bunch of flowers or something. Crack me up it would.”

  “And her husband?” Joanna prompted.

  Kerry Beardmore considered for a moment. “He wasn’t bad,” she said. “Just a bit long-winded. A bit boring. If you gave him half the chance he’d spout on for hours about law and order, politics, public toilets. Anything. And his voice never changed tone. He always spoke in the same way. No expression. Just flat. I found him very hard to listen to. No – I don’t say t
here’s anything wrong with Arthur. It’s just there isn’t very much right with him either.” She forgot herself for a moment in a girlish giggle, which she quickly suppressed with a hand over her mouth and round eyes.

  It was time for confidences. The librarian was wearing a low-cut, v-necked short-sleeved black woollen sweater. She leaned far enough forward for Joanna to have full view of a plump and extended cleavage. “I was glad when she found someone else.”

  “Even if it led to her death?”

  Oddly enough Kerry Beardmore didn’t answer this. She merely regarded both Joanna and then Mike with a perfectly expressionless face.

  It was time to ‘put the screws in’. “Come on, Kerry, you must have had some idea who this mystery lover was?”

  Another giggle. “At first I thought it was Adrian,” she said. “Then – just before Christmas she got very over-confident – very high-and-mighty. Almost flaunting herself. And then she changed. She got very secretive. Almost ashamed. I came in here one lunchtime and she was scribbling something. A letter I think. She covered it up really quickly with her hand and stuffed it into her handbag but I was very curious.”

  “So?” Mike asked bluntly.

  “I didn’t read it,” Kerry said quickly. “I didn’t. I just caught the odd word. I couldn’t help it,” she said defensively. “I couldn’t. I didn’t deliberately set out to read it but I couldn’t help seeing that it was a love letter. There was no name at the top but it was full of romantic phrases. Things like ‘When I think of you’ …and stuff like that.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’d seen letters like that in her bag before. Quite often. She always used blue paper and envelopes, the long ones. And the envelopes were thick, as though there were sheets and sheets of writing.”

  “Who were they addressed to?”

  Kerry took in a deep breath. “They weren’t,” she said. “There was no name on them. She must have filled it in later.”

  She must have realised that Joanna didn’t believe her because she protested again. “Honestly – and in a way I was glad. I thought Beattie deserved to keep her secrets. If she’d wanted us to know who her lover was she would have said.”

  “So what did she say?”

  The woman looked flustered. “Only that we were in for a shock one of these days.”

  “What did you think she meant?”

  “I don’t know. Beattie was a funny one. She half-lived in fantasyland. I suppose part of me wondered if any of it was true.”

  “Go on,” Joanna prompted.

  “When she left work that night I saw her walk past her bike.”

  Sometimes ordinary phrases can appear momentous.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I asked her.”

  “And?” Joanna simply couldn’t see where this was heading.

  “She said ‘I’ve got a letter to deliver.’”

  Still Joanna couldn’t see the significance.

  “Deliver,” Kerry said triumphantly.

  Then the penny dropped and the slot machine started whirring. Cogs and spindles cranking around.

  “So whoever this mystery person is lives or works near enough for her to walk rather than take her bike.”

  “Exactly.”

  They both stood up. “Thank you,” Joanna said. “Thank you.”

  They left the Nicholson Institute a little more enlightened than when they had walked in.

  So they returned to the little handbag shop on the High Street. But this time Joanna had no intention of playing friendly with her. No more acting soft. She was beginning to feel angry and impatient with a casual and uninterested public.

  She entered the shop in truculent mood and didn’t make any attempt to return Jewel’s smile. “I think you’d better put the Closed for half an hour sign up,” Joanna said. “It’s time you were a bit more honest with me.”

  Jewel said nothing but raised her eyebrows, marched to the door, turned the sign around, put the lock down and marched back to her post behind the counter, all the time keeping her eyes on Joanna with an air of frank defiance, waiting for the detective to speak.

  “You knew that Guy Priestley had been ‘making up’ to Beatrice, didn’t you?” Joanna accused.

  She got the distinct feeling that Jewel’s response was one of relief.

  “It was nothing,” she said quickly, studying her fingernails, which had been freshly rebuilt, squared off and painted white. French fingernails. “Nothing. Do you understand me? There was no harm in it. It was just a laugh. No one took it seriously.”

  “Except Beatrice.”

  “Well – that was the trouble. She hadn’t much experience of that sort of thing. I mean it’s obvious Guy’s quite a hunk. Another woman would have been on her guard but Beattie. It just made us laugh. And she got quite up herself. Know what I mean?”

  “Unfortunately I do,” Joanna said. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  The picture was a cruel one, the three of them – her two best friends and Guy all laughing behind their hands at poor old Beatrice. Joanna sat down opposite the false friend and leaned across the counter. “Not much of a friend, are you?”

  Jewel looked away, out of the window, at a couple of shoppers who were trying the door. No mention today of selling Joanna a handbag. Jewel Pirtek was a woman on the defensive. Joanna was curious to know how she would excuse her disloyalty.

  “It was just a joke.”

  Joanna studied her face. There was a trace of shame there, giving her normal glamour a tinge of sadness that made her look suddenly vulnerable.

  She continued looking.

  So did she really suspect one friend of murdering another?

  No. It was no motive.

  “Tell me about it,” Joanna prompted, keeping one eye on Korpanski for his reaction.

  “I think…”

  “Never mind what you think. Your friend is dead. Understand? I believe that somewhere along the line this cruel practical joke contributed to her murder.”

  “No it didn’t.”

  “Sure of that, are you?” Mike had stepped forward and even from ten paces Joanna could feel the heat of his anger.

  But Jewel Pirtek was Korpanski’s equal. She stood up. “Yes, I am bloody sure. It was just a bit of fun.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Really.”

  It was up to Joanna to take the heat out of the situation. “Tell me about it.”

  “Well it was obvious that Beatrice was as jealous as hell of Marilyn’s success with Guy. She was always making little comments about him like how lucky she was and what a nice body he had.” Jewel gave a frank look over her half-moon bifocals. “At first it really surprised us. It was so out of character. It just wasn’t her at all. We thought it was funny. And then we got sort of sick of it so Marilyn said if Guy came over all strong it would shut her up and she’d stop going on about him.”

  “Was she worried? Did she see Beatrice as a potential rival?”

  “No. I kept telling her…”

  Which meant she had been worried.

  “So Guy did pounce on her. Did it have the desired effect?”

  “No. It made her worse. She was convinced he fancied her rotten.”

  “At this point did Marilyn believe that Guy was attracted to Beatrice?”

  The first sign of hesitation. “No.”

  Korpanski and Joanna simply waited.

  “She told Guy it had to finish.”

  “Then?”

  “She came across them together. It was a shock. I mean – she’d never really trusted Guy. She knew what he was like and that one day he’d move on to…” Jewel Pirtek made a wry face “fresh pastures. She just hadn’t thought it would be with someone like Beatrice. It was that bloody adoration,” she said, frowning. “He just fed on it. Like all men.”

  Korpanski’s eyes opened wide.

  “Is it possible,” Joanna asked slowly, “that Marilyn was jealous enough to – ?”

&nb
sp; “No. No. Surely not. I mean.”

  But Joanna could tell that the thought had crossed Jewel’s mind.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Joanna had put this off for as long as she dared. Now she simply had to do it even though she already knew it could lose her two very good friends. But she knew from bitter experience that the minute she donned her policeman’s helmet even friends could leak away like the sand in an egg timer. Not for the first time her career threatened to come between her and people she both liked and respected.

  But it was her job and she owed it to the unfortunate Beatrice. She sighed so heavily Korpanski glanced across at her. “You all right, Jo?”

  “Yes – and no,” she said.

  He bent back towards the computer screen, avoided looking at her and asked casually, “Anything I can help with?”

  She reassured him quickly. “It’s nothing to do with Matthew. I was just thinking I should talk to some of the other members of the cycling club. It’s just possible…” She didn’t need to say any more.

  Korpanski stood up. All six feet plus of him. “I’ll come with you.”

  She smiled at him, feeling a sudden rush of affection for the burly sergeant. Mike Korpanski would always do this, blunder into situations without realising it was the delicate touch which sometimes produced results. Delicate was not an adjective she would ever use to describe him. Yet he meant well. And sometimes his blunderbuss methods did produce results. But it is strange, she reflected, this relationship which builds up when two colleagues work closely together, even two such contrasting personalities. He knew her methods and she knew his.

  She put a restraining hand on his arm. “I think it would make less waves if I went alone,” she said. “He who hunts alone, and all that?”

  “OK.”

  Lynn Oakamoor lived in a neat house on a modern development. Basically curving streets of individually designed brick-built houses, each with their own short drive and garage, neat front gardens sporting geraniums, miniature trees and some very imaginative stonework. It was typical Middle-England. Lynn and her husband had worked hard to afford this place and they kept it immaculately. A well-polished Fiat Uno sat on a drive you could have eaten your dinner from. As Joanna parked the police car close to the kerb she saw a movement at the window. Her friend was in. What she dreaded as she walked up the drive and squeezed passed the car was her friend’s initial smile being replaced by a hostile glare when she told her the real reason for her visit.