‘Dig in!’ Jackson instructed. ‘Paul, here’s Mr Webb to say Happy Birthday.’
‘Happy Birthday, Paul,’ Webb repeated dutifully, and slipped a pound into the boy’s pocket.
‘Now look, Guv, that wasn’t the idea at all. I didn’t — ’
‘Rubbish. Can’t come to a birthday party without a present, can I, Paul?’
The child said shyly, ‘Thank you, Mr Webb.’ Unprompted, at that. Webb was quite impressed. He stood eating a sausage, watching the rosy, excited faces and feeling a rare touch of envy. This was a gap in his life he seldom thought about, but it would grow more noticeable as the years passed.
His brooding was interrupted by a fracas as fisticuffs broke out between the guests. Jackson separated them and grinned ruefully at Webb.
‘Aren’t you glad you haven’t got kids?’
He’d been thinking the opposite, but he smiled and nodded. Even if he had, they’d live with Susan — that was the way things went. And kids were no insurance against old age. They might emigrate, then Ken’d be no better off than he was. Except that he’d have Millie, with her generous curves, her placid face and loving heart.
Catching his eye, she smiled at him, then clapped her hands.
‘All right, boys. If you’ve had enough to eat, you can go and watch television.’
There was a general stampede and the adults were left with the wreckage of the party. Millie laughed. ‘The blessings of the box! Until last year, we had to organize games for every minute they weren’t eating.’
There was a wail in the hall and young Vicky reappeared in the doorway. ‘Paul won’t let me in!’
Jackson scooped her up in his arms. ‘You don’t want to be with a lot of boys, do you? We’re going to have a cup of tea, and if you’re a good girl you can join us.’
They sat at one end of the table, Vicky, thumb in mouth, on her father’s knee, and Webb ate the statutory piece of cake.
Millie said quietly, ‘You’re looking tired. It must be frustrating, when you can’t get hold of people.’
‘Something’ll break soon,’ he said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘We’ve plenty of feelers out.’
The telephone shrilled in the hall. She excused herself, reappearing a minute later. ‘It’s for you, Mr Webb.’
He went quickly from the room. ‘Webb here,’ he said into the phone.
‘Glad to have caught you, Guv.’ It was Fenton, the Desk Sergeant. ‘We’ve had Clapham on the line — they’ve traced the bloke you’re looking for. Signed on today for unemployment benefit.’
Webb stood quite still. ‘That’s great, Andy. Thanks. Hang on while I find a pencil.’ Tucking the phone under his chin, he balanced his notebook on his knee and took down the address.
When he’d rung off, he paused for a moment, drawing a deep breath. Behind the living-room door a rattle of gunfire broke the enthralled silence. Out on the main road, a bus lumbered past. He slipped his notebook into his pocket and opened the dining-room door. Jackson looked up expectantly.
‘Clapham,’ Webb said briefly. ‘The lull’s over. Things are moving at last.’
*
‘And what did you do with yourself today?’ Peter inquired, lavishly grinding pepper over his dinner.
Heather looked up, startled. ‘Nothing much. Why? You don’t usually ask.’
‘Well, it’s Friday the thirteenth, you know. I just wanted to check nothing untoward had happened.’
She stared at him, hysterical laughter in her throat. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said.
‘So it would appear. There’s a positive aura of wellbeing about you this evening.’
Beneath the table, her hands locked together. It seemed he noticed more than she’d thought. ‘Am I usually so glum, then?’
‘Well, you have been edgy lately, haven’t you? Ever since we came here, in fact. But I always said that, given time, you’d settle down and be happy. And I was right, wasn’t I?’
‘Yes, Peter, you were right.’
Her mind slid to that afternoon, and her panic outside the cafe when, from being so desirable, her proposal seemed suddenly tawdry and cheap. All the concepts of honesty and fidelity by which she’d lived so far and to which, in her heart, she still conformed, rose about her like a swarm of wasps, enraged at their overthrowing.
She’d been on the point of turning away when the door was pushed open by an elderly gentleman, who stood aside for her to enter. And thank God she had. Thank God Oliver had understood. Thank God, thank God.
A vacant chalet in the hotel grounds, he’d said, approachable from the back road that ran from Beckett’s Lane. No need even to go through the village. Monday afternoon.
‘It makes it much easier for me,’ Peter was continuing, ‘knowing you’re not fretting at home. You’re even quite philosophical about Joey’s going.’
‘I’m afraid I have been making heavy weather of it. I’ll miss her, of course, but we can go down to see her, can’t we?’
‘Sure, and she’ll be having long vacations for the next few years at least.’
Heather’s spirits soared irrepressibly. There was nothing she couldn’t face, now that she had Oliver. And already Peter was appreciating the change in her. It was more than she deserved, but far from suffering from her love-affair, it would be to her husband’s advantage.
‘And you really are glad, after all, that we came to Frecklemarsh?’ he persisted, stressing the wisdom of his decision.
‘Of course I am,’ she answered dutifully, and smiled at him. ‘Very glad indeed.’
CHAPTER 14
The more Webb saw of London, the more thankful he was to live in Broadshire. True, Shillingham had its dreary areas, notably around the station, but they were limited to a square mile or so, with the country only minutes away. Here, they seemed to have been driving for ever down dingy streets, past boarded-up shops, deserted factories and crumbling, decayed buildings. Yet it was here, even after a couple of months in Broadshire, that Dean had returned, felt most at home. No accounting for tastes.
A row of black plastic bags, put out for collection, had split to reveal the detritus of modern living. Tins, bottles and tea-leaves spewed over the pavement and were bowled along the gutters in the high wind. Down a side street, a market added to the dross its torn cabbage leaves and squashed tomatoes.
Jackson glanced at his chiefs face. ‘Come on, Guv, it’s not that bad. “All human life is here!”’
‘And half of it under our wheels.’ Crowds were pouring across the street regardless of the slow-moving traffic, laughing, jostling, calling out to neighbours. A helmeted policeman stood benignly on the pavement, exchanging comments with the passers-by.
‘How much further?’ Webb asked, looking at his watch. This Saturday journey had already taken longer than their last, Sunday visit.
‘Not far in miles, but at this rate the best part of half an hour. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.’
‘When are you not, lad, but it’s barely midday. We’ll report to the local nick first; they’re keeping tabs on Dean. No doubt they’ll advise us on the availability of lunch.’
Detective-Inspector Boon greeted them affably. ‘Hasn’t shown his face yet and his curtains are still drawn. I’m not surprised, considering the time he hit the sack. Kept young Wilkins up till o-two hundred.’
‘How far away are his digs?’
‘Just round the corner. Very handy.’
‘Then we’ll avail ourselves of your interview room, given the chance.’
‘You want him for that body in the woods case?’
‘We reckon he knows something, yes.’
Jackson coughed discreetly, and Webb continued, ‘My sergeant here is dying of starvation. If the bird hasn’t broken cover, we’ll eat before tackling him. Where would you suggest?’
‘The Pig and Whistle’s quite reasonable. It’s on the corner between here and Dean’s place — halfway house, you might say.’
‘Will you joi
n us?’
‘Thanks, but no. I’m waiting for a phone call. If he makes a move, I’ll send Sergeant Purvey after you.’
The Pig and Whistle was four minutes’ brisk walk from the station, and packed to the walls with lunch-time drinkers. Jackson’s eagle eye spotted a couple vacating a table at the far end, and he managed to claim it while Webb placed their orders.
He was aware of excitement. Dean, their quarry almost since the beginning, was within a few hundred yards. Would his statement close the case? Stubbornly, Jackson was convinced it would. He’d discussed it with Millie the night before when, having cleared up after the party, they were sitting by the fire.
Millie had listened carefully, her knitting needles clicking a soothing accompaniment. ‘All the same,’ she said, when he came to an end, ‘he must know he’s a suspect, being the last to see her. Why go back to his home ground without even changing his name?’
‘A hunted animal returns to its lair,’ Jackson told her grandiosely. ‘Changing names takes time and money and Dean has neither. He needs unemployment pay, and that’s what netted him.’ He was slightly aggrieved that she hadn’t endorsed his reasoning. Millie had a sound head on her shoulders, and he valued her judgement almost as much as the Governor’s.
He looked up to see Webb, head and shoulders above the crowd, weaving his way towards him. With the ease born of long practice, the Chief Inspector set down two brimming tankards without a drop being spilt.
‘You need a survival course to face this lot!’ he commented. ‘Your turn, when the grub’s ready.’
Jackson had just laid down his fork with a sigh of satisfaction when Sergeant Purvey slid on to the bench next to him.
‘You have company, gentlemen,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Dean’s at the far end of the bar. Just closed his fist round a pint. Can’t see him from here,’ he added, as Webb automatically turned. ‘He’s wearing a blue anorak and red sweater. Want any assistance, sir?’
‘He’d be hard pressed to make a dash for it,’ Webb commented. ‘However, if you’d stand by the door, Sergeant, you could escort us back with him.’
The three men rose together, Purvey turning towards the door, Webb and Jackson walking down the length of the bar. Their first sight of Dean was two-sided, his back to them on the bar stool, bald patch inexpertly disguised; and opposite, in the mirror, the still-handsome face with high cheekbones and bright eyes. Some sixth sense alerted him, for he paused, glass half raised, and in the mirror his eyes met Webb’s. He stiffened, then sat unmoving as the Chief Inspector went forward.
‘Mr Dean?’
There was no answer and Webb continued, ‘Shillingham CID, sir. Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson. We’ve a few questions to ask you.’
Dean’s colour faded patchily, white areas surrounding mouth and eyes. He looked quickly from side to side, assessing and rejecting any chance of escape. Then he said with forced jauntiness, ‘A fair cop, as you might say.’
‘If you’ll accompany us back to the station, sir — ’
‘Shillingham?’ He sounded startled.
‘Not in the first instance. Farraby Road.’
With a sigh, Dean relinquished his glass and slipped off the stool. Webb and Jackson closed in on either side and they made their way to the door. The incident had attracted no attention. All around them, shoulders were being slapped and stories exchanged; no one knew or cared that a man in their midst might be charged with murder.
As they stepped outside the wind buffeted their faces, catching their breath and tossing it away, so that they gasped for air. Sergeant Purvey looked Dean up and down without speaking. Then, at a signal from Webb, he led the way to the station.
Seated opposite Dean in the interview room, Webb guessed that last night’s binge had been the rule rather than the exception. There were pouches under his eyes and his skin was loose and waxy.
‘I’m cautioning you, Mr Dean. You understand what that means?’
Dean nodded sullenly. ‘Any chance of a fag?’
‘I don’t smoke, but you’re welcome to your own.’
‘Cheers.’ He fumbled for a battered packet and a box of matches. His fingers were grubby-nailed and brown with nicotine. Webb guessed they’d deteriorated since he worked at The Gables: possibly since he’d killed Nancy Pendrick.
‘You know why we’re here?’
The man drew on his cigarette. His previous experience with the law had taught him to volunteer nothing. ‘No.’
‘It concerns your ex-wife, Mrs Nancy Pendrick.’
Dean closed his eyes briefly. ‘I was sorry to hear about Nance.’
‘We have statements which suggest you were with her on the afternoon of her death. Is there anything you’d like to say?’
‘As God’s my witness, I didn’t kill her.’ His voice was hoarse, and though any murderer would have said the same, Jackson thought: Hell’s teeth, he’s innocent. It was a gut feeling, impossible to justify, but his spirits, which had buoyed him up since yesterday’s phone call, plummeted to rock bottom.
‘Will you tell us, please, what happened that afternoon?’
Silence. Then Dean jabbed his cigarette in the ashtray and lit another. ‘It was that bloody girl’s fault.’
‘Girl, sir?’ Webb queried blandly, and saw tears well in the man’s eyes. Dean slammed his hand on the desk.
‘Gawdstrewth, a bloke my age! It’s bloody pathetic, but I was so sure — well, it doesn’t matter now. I was played for a sucker and that’s all there is to it. An old man, she called me. Nancy’s cast-off. How do you like that?’ He brushed a hand fiercely across his eyes. ‘You married, Chief Inspector?’
‘Not any longer.’
‘Wise man. “The older they are, the harder they fall.” Isn’t that what they say? I put the wind up her, though — I suppose that’s something. She went bleating to Nance, who came charging back to sort me out.’ He gave a strangled laugh. ‘Typical, that is. Always thought she could tackle anyone. She learned different, though, didn’t she?’ He shielded his face with one hand.
Webb said quietly, ‘Mrs Pendrick phoned you from London?’
‘That’s right. Said she wanted to see me.’
‘Did she say what about?’
‘No, she sure as hell didn’t. Thought it was for the sake of my blue eyes. Well, she’d got me off the hook at the hotel, hadn’t she?’ He wasn’t bothering to be cautious now. ‘I wasn’t expecting her to lam into me like that, and I lost my temper, too. Quite like old times, the pair of us bawling at each other. Old frozen-face must have got an earful.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘Keep your dirty hands off Rose. Charming, when it was the little tart that made the running.’ His voice cracked and, knowing Rose, Webb could sympathize.
‘I was crazy about her,’ Dean continued. He was beginning to enjoy himself, using his audience to talk away his heartache. ‘Even asked her to marry me, Gawd help me. But Nance wouldn’t listen. Called me all sorts, and in the end I lashed out and caught her across the face. It was an accident — I hadn’t meant to hit her — but she stormed off, threatening blood and thunder if I didn’t stay away from Rose.’
He stared down at the table, absently tracing its cracks with his nail.
‘And then what happened?’
‘I left, didn’t I? Packed my bags and got out. I’d only stayed in the sticks because of Rose, and I wouldn’t be seeing her again. So I caught the first train and came here. Mrs Reith knows me from the old days, and doesn’t ask questions.’
‘Did you make a phone call to Miss Pendrick?’
Dean looked sheepish. ‘I did, yes.’
‘Saying if you ever caught up with her, she’d get what you’d given Nancy?’
‘Yes, well, I was still hopping mad. Not only that, I was hurt, dammit, to think she could — ’ He broke off, horror dawning in his eyes. ‘My God, she didn’t think I meant — ?’
‘She did indeed.’
‘Rose tho
ught I’d killed Nancy?’
‘And that, given the chance, you’d do the same to her.’
‘Jesus!’ he whispered, and it was more supplication than oath.
‘What were you referring to, Mr Dean?’
‘The slap, of course. It was her that deserved it, not poor Nance, who’d only been doing her protective stepmother bit. When I — when I heard what’d happened, I’d have given anything to take it back.’
Oliver Pendrick had said much the same.
‘Where did you make the call from? Remember, we can check.’ But not easily, Webb thought wryly.
‘Paddington. I’d been hashing over it all the way in, and I was pretty churned up. I reckoned it’d help if I told her what I thought of her.’
Webb looked at him reflectively. He’d never been convinced Dean was their man; now he knew he was not.
‘You read of her murder; why didn’t you come forward?’
‘Do me a favour! When I’d been heard yelling at her minutes before? When I’d got form, and just wriggled off the hook at the hotel? I was giving your lot a wide berth, I can tell you.’
‘You knew we’d be looking for you.’
‘Granted, but there was nothing I could say that would help Nance. Or you, for that matter, ’cos honest to God I don’t know a thing.’
There was silence, measured by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. When he could take no more of it, Dean said urgently, ‘You do believe me?’
‘Yes, Mr Dean, I think so.’
Webb watched as relief illumined his face. ‘Straight up? Well, thank God for that! Can I go, then?’
‘When you’ve signed your statement. We’ll get it typed now. And don’t change your address without telling us, till the case is closed.’
Dean sighed and leant back in his chair. ‘Well, that’s a load off my mind, I must say.’ All at once, he looked years younger. He must have spent the last ten days looking over his shoulder, Jackson thought with grudging pity. But what a lot of time and trouble he’d have saved if he’d come forward in the first place.
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