by Joyce Cato
‘Reverend?’
Graham nodded, then frowned. ‘Yes. Well, I was here, at the table. I was, I think, near the punch bowl.’
‘Thank you. Mrs Noble?’ he glanced around, trying to locate the vicar’s wife. He’d had a vague impressive of a bowed dark head, during their first, fleeting introduction.
Monica looked up at the mention of her name, and Jason, suddenly confronted by a pretty, elfin-shaped face and big smoky blue eyes, blinked rapidly.
‘Mrs Noble?’ he said again, more firmly.
‘I was stood nearly where you are now, talking to Paul. He was handing me a can of ale.’
‘That’s right, I was,’ the big, well-muscled man in shorts and T-shirt confirmed, and Jason cast him a quick look. The man looked vaguely familiar to him for some reason. He made a mental note to try and place just when and where he’d seen Paul Waring before when he had the time to give it some more thought.
‘Mrs Dix?’ he swept on.
‘I was here too. With Vera. Just over there, I think,’ she indicated a spot vaguely.
As Jason looked questioningly around, a plump woman self-consciously half-raised her hand.
‘That’s true. We were talking about shortbread,’ her voice trailed off apologetically.
Jason smiled and nodded. ‘And you, sir?’ he caught the eye of Maurice, who flushed and looked deeply uncomfortable.
‘Oh. I was in my room, dontcha know. Getting changed and er … using the facilities.’
Jason nodded. In his notebook he wrote fluently, ‘on the loo’.
‘And Miss Dix. Miss Julie Dix?’ he added, as the silence dragged on. He saw Joan give her daughter a nudge, and his eyes sharpened on the pretty girl who seemed to come out of a deep faze long enough to look at him vaguely.
‘Sorry?’
‘Where were you, Miss Dix, when you heard the shot?’
‘Oh. In my bedroom.’
‘She was putting on a long-sleeved blouse,’ Joan said, her voice almost ferocious. ‘She was getting sun-burned,’ she added, her voice almost daring him to call her a liar.
Jason had heard that tone of voice before. Usually it came from a parent determined to prove that her boy or girl had nothing to do with whatever was being claimed.
Monica, who’d been listening to everything carefully, found herself becoming almost fascinated by the remote, good-looking, fair-haired man. He’s so obviously apart from us all, Monica thought with a flash of understanding. Rightly or wrongly, it’s suddenly become us against him.
Jason looked over the thin-lipped assembly, and settled on Pauline Weeks. ‘And you, Mrs Weeks? Where were you when you heard the gunshot?’
Pauline shrugged in a masterly gesture of unconcern. ‘I was getting some fruit salad from the fridge. The food down here was getting too warm, and I thought some ice-cold fruit would go down a treat. I nearly dropped the bowl when I heard the shot go off, I can tell you,’ she laughed nervously.
‘I see. And that leaves, Mr Lerwick and Mr Franklyn.’
At the mention of his name, Sean seemed to twitch.
John spoke hastily, feeling, for some obscure reason, suddenly compelled to come to the other man’s rescue. ‘I was getting some ice for the ice bucket. Paul had just gone to the shop for some beer and wine. Vera asked me to get it.’
‘So you were in your flat too?’
‘Well, no. I’d got the ice and had just come out the door when I noticed some Whisky Mac that needed dead-heading. Just over there, in the Nobles’ border. I was just pinching some heads off when I heard the shot and then hurried on over here.’
Jason glanced across the central garden to the other wing of the house. There were a lot of plants, plus the tables in between, but he should have been in plain enough sight.
‘Did anyone notice Mr Lerwick over there when the gun went off?’ he asked quietly.
There was a sudden shuffling of feet and embarrassed half-met glances, but no one volunteered to give the cartoonist an alibi. It was Graham who cleared his throat.
‘I should imagine, Chief Inspector, that everyone did the same as I did when they heard the shot. Namely, looked in the direction of the other wing, where it seemed to have come from. So I doubt that anyone would have noticed John, even though he was stood there in plain sight.’
Jason saw John Lerwick glance at the vicar. Instead of looking grateful for the vote of confidence, he looked merely thoughtful. Which was interesting, but was it relevant?
‘I see. And Mr Franklyn?’ Jason asked softly.
Although his voice was as neutral as before, everyone suddenly seemed to sense danger. Into Monica’s mind, as with most of the others, flashed the thought that the police, in cases like this, immediately suspected the spouse.
‘Mr Franklyn was here,’ Monica said sharply, then flushed as the policeman’s blue eyes instantly fastened onto her face. She felt herself blushing even more deeply and wished she didn’t feel so wrong-footed. ‘I saw him by the table, drinking wine,’ she added, just a touch defiantly. Damn it, did he have to look at her like that? She did see him. He was there.
‘I see,’ Jason said, casting a quick look at the husband. The vicar’s wife had been very quick to defend him. But Sean didn’t look a particularly wholesome sight just at that moment, and for some reason, that made the policeman feel quite pleased. ‘Is that true, Mr Franklyn?’
Sean nodded vaguely. ‘That’s right. I was here,’ he said dully. ‘Drinking the fruit punch, actually. Not the wine.’
‘Did anybody else notice Mr Franklyn’s whereabouts at the time of the shot?’ Jason persisted.
‘Yes, I did,’ Vera said crisply. ‘He was here, like Monica said, drinking wine … or something in a wine glass anyway.’
Graham cleared his throat. Jason’s eyes went straight to him. ‘Mr Franklyn was definitely present at the time of the shot, Chief Inspector,’ he added his own two pennies worth, holding his gaze steadily.
Obviously, nobody here was prepared to let Sean Franklyn become suspect number one, Jason noted. Now why was that? He somehow doubted that Sean was particularly popular with everyone. Perhaps they all just had an over-abundance of a sense of fair play. Jason, with none of his rather sardonic thoughts showing on his face, merely nodded and made a note. So, the husband has an alibi. Curiouser and curiouser.
Of course, the culprit might not be amongst these people at all. It could have been a complete outsider.
‘I’d like to see the rear exits of the house,’ Jason said. ‘Perhaps you could show me, Reverend? And would everybody else please return to their flats. Somebody will be along to take a full statement shortly.’
Graham glanced at the house. ‘Do you want to go into the east wing or the west?’
Jason indicated the entrance that lead to flat 2. Inside, Jason quickly realized that a rather dark and narrow corridor ran the entire length of the building. So anyone could have gone through the house and out through the rear exit without being seen. This hypothesis was confirmed as they reached the back of the house, where a lift was located at a right angle to a pair of big double doors which in turn led out onto a gravelled car park and a dense jungle of garden.
The door was unlocked. Jason glanced at the gravel, which as he’d expected, showed no sign of bloodstains. It was also, of course, impossible to tell the individual movements of footsteps or tyre tracks in the gravel, which had been regularly used. He nodded.
‘Can I use your telephone, Reverend? It’ll save me going back to the car.’ He had, of course, a mobile on him, but he wanted to see inside the vicar’s flat.
Once in his study, Graham tactfully left him alone, and Jason reported in and asked for more manpower. As he looked around the pleasantly masculine and tidy room, he noted – unsurprisingly – several old bibles lining the shelves, along with tomes on theology, philosophy, archaeology and a huge Roget’s thesaurus.
Jason knew that understanding the set-up at the vicarage was imperative if he was to solve this cri
me. Sean Franklyn, now, had looked shocked enough, and he had an alibi, but there was something about him that had that look of a man caught out in some way.
Then there was the vicar. Outwardly calm, Jason instinctively wanted to trust him. And since he also had an alibi, he could see himself relying more and more on Graham Noble to give him the inside picture.
Monica Noble now. He’d have to talk to her himself about the discovery of the body. He was looking forward to speaking to her again, and that made him frown.
Then there was Paul Waring. If the police hadn’t run across him before, Jason would be surprised.
The mother and daughter were definitely nervous, and there was something there, without a doubt.
Maurice Keating had the look of an academic about him. Once, Jason had had the pleasure of arresting a man who’d thought himself very clever indeed. The clever ones always thought they could get away with murder. If this wasn’t a crime of passion, or a spur-of-the-moment do, then he’d have to take a really close look at Maurice Keating. Especially since he was one of those with no alibi.
Pauline Weeks was another one absent at the time of the shooting. Jason didn’t feel anything about her one way or the other, except that she’d been acting just a shade too nonchalant for his taste. But that could just be a cover for nerves.
There seemed to be nothing outstanding about John Lerwick, or Vera Ainsley.
He sighed and walked to the door, and as he pulled it open a long-haired waif tumbled into the room and all but fell over his feet. She just managed to save herself gracefully, then turned a young, defiant face his way.
‘Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here,’ Carol-Ann lied magnificently.
Jason’s lips twitched. ‘No?’
‘No. You’re not one of Graham’s bleeding hearts, are you? If so, you’d better scram. Someone’s dead, and this isn’t the time to start making confessions. The cops might get the wrong idea.’
And with arms akimbo she smiled at him challengingly. He was quite a hunk, Carol-Ann thought dreamily.
‘I’m Chief Inspector Dury. And you are?’
‘Carol-Ann Clancy.’
‘Carol-Ann?’ It was Monica Noble, drawn by the sound of her daughter’s voice, who called her name from out in the hallway.
‘In here, Mum,’ Carol-Ann yelled back.
Monica put her head around the door, and her eyes flashed quickly at Jason. What was he doing, questioning Carol-Ann without her being present? Wasn’t there a law against that?
Jason looked confused. Mum?
‘I’m sorry, I thought you said your name was Clancy?’ he turned back to Carol-Ann.
‘Carol-Ann is the daughter of my first marriage, Chief Inspector,’ Monica explained, entering and then closing the door behind her. ‘I was widowed. Graham Noble is my second husband.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Jason nodded. Then his eyes narrowed. Nobody had mentioned Carol-Ann Clancy before. ‘And where were you when the shot went off, Miss Clancy?’ Jason asked casually.
Carol-Ann swallowed hard. ‘In my bedroom. Getting changed.’
Without being aware of it, she was sidling up to her mother, who took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. Monica noticed the quick, speculative look that flashed into the policeman’s penetrating eyes, and felt her heart lurch in sudden fear. Surely he didn’t regard Carol-Ann as a suspect? She was a child!
‘That’s right,’ Monica said firmly. ‘As soon as I heard the shot go off, I raced in here to see if she was all right.’
Jason sighed. More revelations.
‘You didn’t happen to see John Lerwick dead-heading any flowers did you, Miss Clancy?’ he asked dryly. ‘He claimed to be in your flower border at the time.’
But Carol-Ann surprised him.
‘Yeah, I did. He went past my window just a second before I heard the shot. Made me jump, I can tell you, but old John’s all right. He’s not a perv. He didn’t even look into my bedroom window on the off-chance of getting an eyeful.’
Jason smiled. ‘I see. Might I see your room?’
Monica paled, mostly at the thought of the state of it, but gallantly led the good-looking policeman into Carol-Ann’s den. But he merely glanced around the typical teenage chaos, then strode purposefully across to the window. The girl had a perfect view across the garden, he noted, as well as the other wing facing this one. He turned sharply.
‘Did you see anyone come in or out of the front door over there?’ he asked quickly.
Carol-Ann instantly shook her head. ‘No. Nobody.’
Although she’d answered instantaneously, he got the feeling that it was the truth. Jason nodded. So the killer must have come and gone from the back. He needed to know who had flats overlooking that side of the house.
‘You don’t happen to have a plan of the house, do you?’ he asked, without much hope, and as expected, Monica shook her head.
‘Sorry, no. But I could draw you a rough sketch if you like,’ she offered, ‘so long as you don’t want anything too technical.’
Monica led Jason back to her husband’s study. Once there, she sat behind Graham’s desk, drew out a sheet of clean paper and a pen, and glanced up inquiringly. Jason had one hand resting on the desk. Leaning forward like that made his hair fall over his high forehead. She could smell the clean, sharp scent of his aftershave. She felt her heart trip just a little and hastily leaned back and away from him.
‘What, exactly, do you need to know?’ she mumbled.
‘Just the positioning of the flats and who lives in them. Where the doors are, any windows that are in public-access areas and the location of the lift and the stairs.’
Monica, relieved to have some simple task to do, set to work and a few minutes later handed him a rough sketch. Jason looked it over and saw that, of those not present outside when the shot was heard, only Pauline Weeks had a flat overlooking the back. John Lerwick did too, but he’d been in the central garden, confirmed by Carol-Ann, at the time of the shooting.
‘Right. Thanks,’ he said. And clutching the piece of paper, he left.
Monica watched him go, and only then, slowly relaxed. When she looked up again, Graham was standing in the open doorway, watching her curiously.
‘Was that the Chief Inspector I just heard go?’ he asked mildly.
Monica nodded wordlessly.
‘Why don’t you come and lie down,’ Graham said gently. ‘You’ve had a really nasty shock. First you were white as a sheet, now you’re quite flushed. Do you want me to call the doctor out?’
Monica reached for his hand and went quickly into his arms.
‘No. I’m fine,’ she said, resting her cheek against his chest, and taking a deep, gasping breath. ‘Oh Graham,’ she said softly.
Upstairs, on the top floor, Pauline Weeks was proving to be unhelpful.
Unfortunately, according to her version of events, she didn’t look out of her kitchen window whilst collecting the fruit salad, and so couldn’t say whether or not anyone had emerged from the back door.
‘I notice your fridge is set right next to the window,’ Jason prompted, staring at the appliance in question through the open kitchen door. ‘I would have thought that it would have become a more or less automatic gesture to glance outside whenever using it.’
Pauline shrugged. ‘What can I say? I didn’t.’
But her eyes refused to meet those of the policemen, and he felt a vague stirring of interest in his stomach. Just what was she holding back?
‘The fruit salad must be downstairs now. Perhaps you’d like to retrieve it before the sun ruins it,’ he offered casually.
Pauline started, then laughed nervously. ‘Well, I didn’t actually take it down.’
‘No?’ he raised an eyebrow.
‘No. When I heard the sound of the shot, I clean forgot all about it,’ Pauline explained carefully.
Jason nodded. ‘I see.’
It all sounded, on the face of it, plausible enough. So why did he get the feelin
g that she was lying through her teeth?
CHAPTER 7
The arrival of the forensics experts was observed with intense interest by all those in the flats with a view to the front of the property. Monica, pretending to read, quickly abandoned her book as Carol-Ann bounded into the living room, breathless and pink-cheeked.
‘Mum, you’ve just got to come into the kitchen and have a look at what’s going on out there,’ she squeaked excitedly from the doorway.
Monica sighed, not really in any mood to watch any of the gory and depressing details that must surely come with a murder investigation. But in the end, she thought that it was probably best to keep an eye on things, or at least keep herself up to date on what was happening. She suspected that Carol-Ann, by dint of being on her own at the time of the shooting, was actually on Dury’s list of suspects, absurd as that seemed to her. And that thought really scared her. Teenagers had killed before, after all, and been tried and convicted of a variety of crimes, as the newspapers and news programmes on television were only too happy to demonstrate. And who was to say that a miscarriage of justice couldn’t happen to them? Thrusting aside such unpleasant thoughts, she followed her daughter to the kitchen.
‘What is it?’ she asked, joining Carol-Ann by the sink, where the teenager was craning her neck to watch the alien-looking people in their pristine white boiler suits swarming all over the place.
Monica, spotting them, suddenly shuddered.
‘Oh, come away, for pity’s sake. Don’t be such a ghoul! If that man Dury sees you watching, he’s bound to wonder why you’re so curious.’
‘Oh don’t be daft, Mum,’ Carol-Ann wailed, but then observed, ‘oh look – he’s got to be the one who takes all the pictures and things.’
But since the officer in question was festooned with cameras, it was hardly a massive fete of deduction.
‘Carol-Ann, if you don’t come into the living room with me right this minute, you’re not going out for a week,’ Monica warned stiffly.
Carol-Ann sniffed, but grudgingly followed her mother to the door.
In the small hall of the ‘murder wing’ – as he was beginning to think of it – Jason Dury watched the forensics people get to work.