David Webb 2 - A Necessary End

by Anthea Fraser

  Webb drove slowly out on to Duke Street and turned right, away from the town centre. Down this end, the road housed mainly offices, and a few late workers were queuing in the rain for buses. Waiting at the traffic lights, his memory played back the day just gone: the briefing session, with the information that Pendrick and La Frayne had been alone after all. Then the woman herself, quiet and tense, and her jumpy, inconsiderate husband. Suppose her return affected Pendrick more than they’d realized?

  Pursuing his thoughts, Webb drove up the hill. The flats where he lived stood in the grounds of the gracious houses they’d replaced and still bore their names. He turned into the drive of Beechcroft Mansions, and went along it to the garage. On his left, the garden lay darkly in the wind and rain. No temptation tonight to linger with his sketch pad.

  Spurning the lift, he went up two flights of stairs, pausing briefly on the first landing to glance at Hannah’s door. There’d been no contact between them since Saturday’s questioning. Perhaps Miss Yates was still there.

  His thought waves might have reached her, for ten minutes later Hannah knocked on his door. ‘Hello, David. How’s it going?’

  The reserve was still present. He stood to one side. ‘Come in. Is your aunt still with you?’

  ‘No, she only stayed a couple of days. She had to prepare for the new term.’

  ‘I hope she wasn’t too upset.’ It occurred to him that Charlotte Yates might be the only one who truly mourned Nancy.

  A sizzling from the kitchen claimed his attention. ‘Excuse me — I left the chops on. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No.’ She followed him. ‘I was going to ask you to join me, but I see I’m too late.’

  ‘Then let me do the honours. There’s enough for two, and I often eat at your place.’

  ‘In that case, thank you. Anything I can do?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ In his own way, he was quite an accomplished cook. When Susan left him, he’d vowed not to live out of tins.

  Hannah sniffed the onion sauce appreciatively. ‘I seem to remember that the more involved you become in a case, the more elaborate your cooking.’

  He grinned, and his face was suddenly younger. ‘It’s good therapy, I’ll say that for it.’

  ‘Have you any leads, David?’ She paused, then added: ‘You were right, I wasn’t being helpful on Saturday. I was in a state of shock.’

  ‘I know.’ He turned the chops. ‘But it wasn’t idle curiosity; I needed the answers. Fortunately your aunt supplied them.’

  ‘I thought she would, but I didn’t want to forestall her. And I was afraid that what I said might be misleading, point to someone quite innocent.’

  ‘In fact, you didn’t trust my judgement.’

  There was a silence, then Hannah said quietly, ‘It must have looked like that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘OK, no harm done.’ But he’d been hurt by her reticence and the fact annoyed him. ‘At least,’ he added wryly, ‘your aunt’s interest in criminology can have full rein. Has she come up with any theories?’

  ‘No, it’s too close to home. She really was shaken, poor love. Being in Nancy’s flat made it worse.’

  A gust of wind rattled the windows in a burst of rain. Hannah added, ‘I saw the reconstruction on the news. Is it likely to help, do you think?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

  She gave a short laugh. ‘All right, I’ll stop pumping you. But we are friends again, aren’t we?’

  He pulled her against him, resting his face on her hair. ‘Friends.’ His mood began to lighten. Hannah always had the knack of calming him down. Mentally, that is; physically it was the reverse, which was a combination he couldn’t fault.

  He tipped her head back and kissed her. ‘Now, if you don’t stop distracting the cook, the meal won’t be worth eating.’

  She laughed and turned away, beginning to lay the table. Tonight, he thought, they can go to hell, the lot of them: Oliver Pendrick, his spoilt son, his sexy daughter, and the rest. Tomorrow they would again have his full attention, but they’d no claim on the hours between. Those belonged exclusively to him. And Hannah.

  And, as always, they were restorative. Much later, as they lay together, calm and relaxed, Hannah said suddenly, ‘Well? Aren’t you going to talk about the case?’

  He turned, but the moonlight which filled the room left her face in shadow. ‘Now?’

  ‘Oh come on, David, you always do. When we’re lying quietly like this, you use me as your sounding-board.’

  It was true. Release of physical tension brought corresponding mental respite, and many of his problems, talked over in this dark and tranquil room, had effortlessly resolved themselves. He’d hoped Hannah wouldn’t comment on the fact that tonight he’d remained silent.

  She said softly, ‘You still haven’t forgiven me, have you?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘I think it is. You feel I’m involved in this case, even at a distance, so I can’t be treated as an impartial audience.’ He smiled in the darkness and his fingers caressed her shoulder. ‘Psychology you read at Oxford, was it?’

  ‘It’s obvious. But I still want to help, David. And as for repeating anything, even to Charlotte, this bed is like the confessional. You know that. Don’t — shut me out.’

  He moved protestingly. ‘I’m not, love. Really. It’s just that I’m not ready yet to sound out my ideas. Too many loose ends. Now, if you were to invite me back in two or three days, things might be different!’

  ‘Always ready to assist the police,’ Hannah said demurely, and turned to meet his mouth.

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘You’re blinking cheerful this morning, aren’t you, Guv?’ Jackson said accusingly as they drove out of the police station.

  Webb grinned. ‘Another day, another dollar. Something’s got to break soon. Perhaps Pussy was the start of it. At any rate, I want a word with young Sharon on exactly what passed between her and Nancy. It’s a point that’s niggled me all along; she didn’t repeat anything she’d said herself, yet according to her statement, Nancy said, “Whatever’s the matter?” and then, “What happened?” Now, that’s not what you’d say to a kid who’s fallen over — it’s perfectly obvious what’s happened. But if, as Pussy said, she came rushing in a distressed condition from a dark passageway, then it’s just the kind of thing you would say.’

  ‘And that could be why Mrs P went down the alley,’ Jackson added. ‘I mean, if the kid had seen a mugging or a break-in or something, she might have gone to deal with it, and got more than she bargained for.’

  ‘Except that no crimes were reported that day. Anyway, I want a good look at the alley myself as soon as we’ve finished here.’

  They had drawn up at 124 Wellington Street. The outer door was closed. ‘Looks as if no one’s home. We’ll ring the bell, anyway.’

  It was not answered, and they were still standing there when a woman turned in at the next gateway. ‘They’re away,’ she told them over the dividing wall. ‘Doris’s mother’s been took bad. Won’t be back till the weekend.’

  Webb thanked her and they got back into the car. ‘So we’re stymied there, which is a nuisance. OK, Ken, let’s look at that alley.’

  A delivery van was pulling out as they came down Station Road, and Jackson slipped into the gap. Directly alongside was the Punjabi Gardens, its interior hidden by red brocade curtains. A card on the door informed them it was open daily from six p.m. to midnight.

  ‘We’ll have to check, Ken, but it seems unlikely anyone’d be around at four-thirty, and if they were, they wouldn’t see much from behind that lot. Is there a back entrance?’

  ‘We can look from the alley.’

  The alley itself, some eight feet wide, stretched in front of them, hemmed in by high walls on either side. The building to the right was a betting shop, and the two policemen went inside. The proprietor, over-eager to help, had nothing to offer. He’d watched the reconstruction, but the preceding drama hadn’
t penetrated his painted windows.

  Having expected nothing more, Webb and Jackson set off down the alley. Two women were coming along it, chatting animatedly, and the policemen pressed against the wall to let them pass. At intervals, gates had been let into the walls, but the majority were boarded up. Fish and chip papers, soaked with rain, had blown against them, and there was a prevailing smell of cats.

  After about fifty yards a turning branched off to the right and the men followed it, emerging minutes later in a large, rectangular space. It was the Odeon car park. Across the wide expanse, they could see the traffic in Carlton Road.

  ‘Beresford parked here that afternoon,’ Webb commented. ‘Pity he didn’t come out earlier — he might have walked in on the action.’

  They retraced their steps and continued to the end of the alley, where they stood for a minute or two, watching the shoppers in Carlton Road. Then, in silence, they turned and walked back to the car.

  ‘Pretty barren sort of place,’ Jackson ventured at last. ‘As far as I can see, it’s a short cut and nothing else.’

  ‘True. So why did it prove fatal for Nancy Pendrick? If, indeed, it did: she might have emerged safely into Carlton Road and met her fate there. Or any other damn place, for all we know.’

  ‘Perhaps Dean saw her turn into the alley and went in after her. She was delayed by meeting Sharon; he could have caught up with her.’

  ‘It’s possible. Make a U-turn here if you can, Ken. We’ll go back and have a word with Mrs Tallow. She might know whether Dean had a job, and if so, what it was.’

  Mrs Tallow greeted them with her customary surliness, though an air of self-importance had crept in. Television cameras at her gate, despite the sordid reason for them, gave an improved standing with her neighbours.

  ‘Of course he had a job,’ she said, in reply to Webb’s query. ‘Wouldn’t have taken him in without one — couldn’t have paid the rent, could he? And I wouldn’t want him mooching round here all day.’

  ‘Do you know where he worked?’

  ‘The music shop in Birchall Place. I saw him one day, when I went to the market.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Tallow. I suppose there’s been no word from him?’

  Her expressive sniff was answer enough.

  ‘What puzzles me, Ken,’ Webb said as Jackson started the car, ‘is why he came to Shillingham when the hotel sacked him. Pendrick assumed he’d returned to the Smoke — said he was a born Londoner — and it can’t have been Nancy who was the attraction; he’d have had more chance of seeing her in London.’

  A possible solution was offered at the music shop. It was a small, crowded place, with a stereo playing at full volume, and they had difficulty making themselves heard. But when the staff realized what Webb wanted, they were willing to talk of Dean.

  ‘One for the girls, was old Danny,’ the manager said with a smile. ‘One of our young ladies was quite smitten, but though he played her along, he didn’t ask her out. She was quite upset.’

  Webb was wondering if, thirty-odd years ago, he’d played his 78s at that volume. He doubted it; his father would have scalped him.

  ‘But then he wouldn’t, would he,’ the manager continued, ‘when he’d already got a girl. To hear him talk, you’d think she was a cross between Raquel Welch and Princess Di!’

  ‘What was her name, did he say?’

  ‘No, that’s one thing he kept to himself.’

  ‘Did she ever come here?’

  ‘I never saw her. She phoned once — or some bird did. Arranging to meet in the lunch-hour, I think.’

  ‘And he didn’t leave a forwarding address?’

  Some hope, thought Jackson, when he’d done in his wife!

  ‘We didn’t even know he was going. Wednesday morning he was as chirpy as usual. It was half-day closing, but there was no hint he wouldn’t be back next day.’

  Which was what Mrs Carstairs said about Nancy. Neither, that Wednesday morning, had foreseen anything unusual in their meeting, yet both had disappeared after it, Nancy to be found dead and Dean still missing. What the devil had it been about?

  ‘This girlfriend of Dean’s: did he show you a photo?’

  ‘Yes he did, if it really was her. Looked a bit too classy in my opinion, but she was a cracker all right.’

  ‘Could you describe her, sir?’

  The man shrugged. ‘The usual. Long legs, blonde — you know the type.’

  Jackson looked quickly at Webb, caught the sudden narrowing of his eyes. God, was it possible Rose Pendrick was involved with Dean? Was that why she’d been so frightened? They could have met while he was at the hotel, though why Rose should bother with the likes of Dean, he couldn’t imagine.

  ‘Back to Gables Lodge, I suppose?’ he said, as they came out into the narrow confines of Birchall Place.

  ‘Not yet, Ken. I want to wait till we get the gen on phone calls.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Mrs Tallow again. Remember her saying “It wasn’t his usual girl”? I was concentrating on Nancy at the time and didn’t pick that up. Let’s see if her description tallies.’

  *

  Heather opened the door and stood staring at him.

  Oliver said, ‘I came to thank you for your letter.’

  ‘It was the least I could do.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You haven’t met my daughter, have you? Joey, this is Mr Pendrick.’

  A tall, dark girl unfolded herself from the sofa. She was wearing T-shirt and jeans and her hair fell in a straight sheet down her back. She had her mother’s eyes and her father’s full mouth, softer and more appealing in its feminine form.

  ‘My daughter, Joanna.’

  He took her long, narrow hand. ‘I’m sorry about your wife,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Though the same age as Rose, she seemed both older and younger.

  The girl glanced at her mother. ‘Shall I make some coffee?’

  ‘Please, darling.’

  As the door closed behind her, Oliver said quietly, ‘I shouldn’t have come, but I had to see you.’

  Heather’s eyes moved over his face. ‘It’s not very wise. If anyone — ’

  He said explosively, ‘God, Heather, how can all this have flared up in ten days?’

  She moistened her lips. ‘I’m so very sorry — about Nancy.’

  ‘I presume the police have been?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Asking about Wednesday?’ She nodded.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say — or what you’d already told them.’

  ‘I kept your name out of it.’

  ‘I thought you would. I didn’t mention you, either. I said I’d only been out to post a letter.’

  ‘And they believed you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They know I was out — God knows how — but I refused to say where.’

  ‘But Oliver, that’s dangerous.’

  He shrugged. ‘They suspect the husband anyway. It’s an occupational hazard.’

  ‘All the more reason to tell the truth.’

  ‘It’s none of their damn business.’

  ‘But it is, in the circumstances.’ She shuddered. ‘You realize we were together at the exact time she was killed? It makes it all so much worse.’

  ‘Because she’s dead?’ His voice was harsh. ‘She wouldn’t have cared if she were alive. And we weren’t doing anything wrong, for God’s sake, only driving round and round trying to sort things out.’

  ‘Then why not own up?’

  ‘Because they wouldn’t believe me. I know how their minds work.’

  ‘Darling, they’re not interested in our morals. All they care about is whether one of us killed Nancy.’

  The door opened and Joanna reappeared with the tray. Oliver forced himself to sit back and relax. Her hair falling forward, Joanna poured the coffee and handed him a cup with a shy sm
ile. A studious-looking girl; if he and Heather had married, she rather than Rose could have been his daughter. The two girls, each reminiscent of her mother at that age, brought back vividly the choice he’d made. Had it been the right one? If he’d married Heather as planned, both Avis and Nancy might be alive today. But to accept such a premise was to entrust the future to a toss of the dice.

  He looked up to find the girl’s serious eyes on him, and tried to rouse himself. ‘I hear you’re off to college next week?’

  ‘Yes, I’m studying medicine.’

  That at least he couldn’t have bequeathed her, Oliver thought wryly. For several minutes they talked of medical matters, the prospects for qualified doctors, the pros and cons of emigrating. Speaking of her career, Joanna came warmly to life, her sallow face flushing with enthusiasm. He saw Heather’s eyes, full of love, resting on her, and felt a stab of jealousy. For this wasn’t his daughter, but Peter Frayne’s.

  The ringing of the phone interrupted them. Ignoring the instrument beside her, Joanna jumped up. ‘I’ll take it upstairs,’ she said, and hurried from the room.

  Oliver said, ‘I must go.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Heather rose with him. Impulsively he pulled her towards him and started to kiss her, feeling her ineffectual hands against his chest before, with a sound in her throat, she wound them round his neck. Almost at once she pulled away.

  ‘This has got to stop. It’s unfair to all of us.’

  ‘“All” including Peter?’

  ‘Peter most of all. Don’t look so stricken, darling, you know I’m right.’ She ran a finger gently over the bump on his nose.

  He caught and held her hand. ‘Tell me the truth, Heather. Are you happy with him? If we hadn’t met again, would you have been content to spend the rest of your life with him?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, surprised she didn’t choke on the lie. He stared down at her, willing her to retract it, but it was the only lifeline she had, and she knew he would accept it.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘Then I’ve no right to complicate things.’