David Webb 2 - A Necessary End

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘One thing more,’ Webb said smoothly. ‘Don’t you owe Mrs Tallow some rent?’

  Dean flushed. ‘Well, she wasn’t there, was she, and like I said I wasn’t hanging about.’

  ‘That was ten days ago; you’ve had time to forward it, and I’m sure you’d like to start with a clean slate.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Dean muttered.

  Webb nodded, confident he would comply. ‘Sergeant, would you ask someone to type Mr Dean’s statement? Then I don’t think we need detain him. Or ourselves, for that matter.’ He smiled. ‘Believe it or not, we’re anxious to get back to the sticks.’

  Dean grinned, his cockiness already restored. ‘Takes all sorts!’ he commented.

  ‘So there we are,’ Jackson said, breaking a long silence as they reached the motorway. ‘Back to square one.’

  ‘Not quite, but we’ll have to do some rethinking. All along, we assumed that whatever brought Nancy to Broadshire had a direct bearing on her death. It looks as if we were wrong.’

  ‘Not necessarily, Guv. I mean, OK, so she came of her own accord, but someone must have known she was coming, and made use of it.’

  ‘But suppose we’re barking up the wrong tree? What if her murder was more or less an accident, that she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?’

  Jackson said unbelievingly, ‘And the wrong time and place was four-thirty in Station Road?’

  ‘Or the alley leading off it. And she saw something she shouldn’t have done.’

  ‘Such as what?’ Jackson’s voice was flat, but his eyes glinted as they did when his interest was roused.

  ‘God knows. There was no report of a robbery or break-in. What could she have seen in those few minutes which was important enough to die for?’

  ‘You’re saying if she’d been five minutes earlier or later leaving Dean’s place, she might still be alive?’

  ‘I’m saying it’s possible. We can forget Dean. He was the obvious choice, the ex-husband she’d just rowed with. It was too pat — I always thought that.’

  ‘There’s still Pendrick. He wouldn’t tell us where he was.’

  ‘If he’d been guilty, he’d have invented something. Oh, he’d the opportunity, but I don’t go along with the motive — not if you’re thinking of Mrs Frayne. Mind you, he could have had an entirely different reason for killing her. We’ll have to dig some more. Then there are the two who admit to being in Shillingham, Henry and Mr Beresford. They accounted for their movements, but they could be lying. You know, Ken, I’m beginning to think the answer lies with that kid. Suppose what she said to Nancy led directly to her death?’

  ‘If you’re right, and the killer twigs it, she’s in danger.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking. We’ll arrange protection the minute she gets home.’

  It was six o’clock when they reached Carrington Street. ‘It’s been a long day, Ken. You can knock off now.’

  ‘What about you, Guv?’

  ‘I’m going to put a watch on the Robinsons’ house. I want Sharon brought in the minute she gets back.’

  ‘You’ll have a job shaking off the mother!’

  ‘She can come if she wants — as far as the interview room. Not inside, though, and I shan’t be, either. I’m counting on her talking more freely if there’s only women present. Sally’ll sort it out, with luck.’

  In his office, Webb put his plan into operation. ‘It may not even be tonight, Andy,’ he finished, ‘but whenever it is, I want to know the minute they get here with the girl. I’ll hang on at The Brown Bear till closing time — you can bleep me there. After that, my home number.’

  At lunch-time and after work, The Brown Bear was like a club to Webb, crowded with friends and colleagues. Now, on Saturday evening, it had an alien persona which the familiar surroundings served to emphasize. The faces round the bar were unknown to him: young people on their first date, couples filling in time before the cinema. He felt a stranger, as out of place as if he’d strayed into a different time-band.

  He sat morosely at a table, staring into his beer and hoping his decision to guard Sharon Robinson wasn’t too late.

  ‘All alone, Mr Webb?’

  He looked up at the barmaid, engaged in emptying the ashtrays.

  ‘Afraid so, Mabel. Waiting for a case to break.’

  ‘The murder?’ A keen crime-follower, Mabel took pride in her police clientele.

  ‘Could be. Time to join me for a drink?’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t, but the rush is over for the moment. Ta.’

  He watched as she had a word with the barman and returned with her usual Bloody Mary.

  ‘Bottoms up, Mr Webb!’

  He raised his glass to her and drank, watching her over the rim. A peroxide blonde in her fifties, she was lavishly made up and exuded a cloying scent of tea-rose. Her silky open-knit top was hard put to support her heavy breasts, and at the station they placed bets on the number of bangles she wore. But for all her blowsiness, her brown eyes were warm and concerned.

  ‘Getting you down, is it, this murder?’

  ‘All murders get me down, Mabel.’

  ‘Get away — you thrive on them! I watched the replay on telly. Quite a thrill, seeing old Shillingham on the box. Did you get anything out of it?’

  ‘That’s what I hope to find out.’

  And right on cue, the bleeper sounded in his pocket. The barmaid’s eyes widened in excitement. ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘The information I’ve been waiting for.’ He finished his drink, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Sorry, Mabel, I must go. See you Monday, all being well.’

  He stood up, his tiredness dropping away, and leaving her staring after him, made his way out of the pub.

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘This really is the limit!’ Mrs Robinson said indignantly. ‘We’ve had a long journey, and the last thing we want is to be dragged out at this time of night. If this is what I get for doing my duty and bringing Sharon to see you, I’ll know better next time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Robinson, we’ll be as quick as we can. And I did say there was no need for you — ’

  ‘Let her go by herself? The very idea! A disgrace, I call it. I’ve a good mind to write to my MP.’

  ‘That’s your privilege,’ Sally said quietly. She hoped the Governor knew what he was doing. The kid seemed terrified; just as well Liz was with her in the back — she looked as if she could pass out. Then the cat would be among the pigeons.

  With relief, she saw they were turning into Carrington Street. Now she’d only to extract Sharon from her mother’s clutches, and leave the latter to Andy.

  It was easier than she’d expected. In the formal atmosphere of the foyer, Mrs Robinson’s defiance wilted. She heard Andy say bracingly, ‘Now, ma’am, I’m sure we could rustle up a cup of tea.’

  Sharon hadn’t uttered a word in their presence. Somehow, that silence would have to be broken.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like some tea, too?’ she began.

  The girl shook her head, and after a moment said, ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Sharon, I’m sorry to bring you here. I know you’re tired, but it’s very important. I want you to tell us again what happened on the fourth of January.’

  ‘Mum had run out of flour. She sent me to fetch some.’

  ‘And?’

  The girl licked her lips. ‘On the way back I fell and hurt myself. The lady helped me up, and then I went home.’

  ‘That’s not quite all, is it?’

  ‘I told them what she said. It was nothing important.’

  ‘How about what you said to her?’

  It was impossible for the child’s face to become paler, but her eyes were hunted. ‘I don’t remember.’

  A direct approach seemed indicated. ‘Why were you in the alley?’

  Sharon gasped. For a moment she stared at the policewoman. Then, bursting into tears, she covered her face with her hands. Sally moved round the desk and put an arm round he
r. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. No one’s going to hurt you, but you must tell us everything.’

  Sharon said from behind her hands, ‘Will you tell Mum?’

  ‘Only if it’s necessary.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.’

  Sally sat down again. ‘Suppose you start at the beginning.’ The girl felt for a handkerchief and blew her nose. It seemed that, faced with the inevitable, the truth would after all be a relief. ‘I went to the Co-op and got the flour. When I came out, I saw two boys I know across the road.’ A tinge of colour seeped into her face. ‘They called me over, so I went.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Sharon bit her lip. ‘Do I have to tell you?’

  ‘I think you should.’ Though God knows how this adolescent skirmishing concerned Nancy Pendrick.

  ‘They were fooling around, pushing each other about. Steve said to Jonathan, “You said you fancied her, now’s your chance. I dare you to take her down the alley!” I tried to edge past, but Steve grabbed my arm. He said, “You like Jonathan, don’t you, Sharon? How about a nice cuddle?”’ Her face was bright red now, and she stared at her hands twisting the handkerchief. She added wistfully, ‘And I do like him, so I said all right. Mum’d kill me!’

  Sally felt a stirring of pity, remembering the traumas of youth.

  ‘It was dark down there,’ Sharon went on shakily. ‘There aren’t many lamps. I let him kiss me and he — put a hand inside my jumper. Then all of a sudden he froze. I turned round, and I — I saw a man in one of the gateways, watching us. Jonathan said loudly, “Dirty bastard! Can’t you get your own kicks?’’ And he ran off, calling me to follow him. I started to, but my legs were all wobbly and I tripped.’ She looked up, meeting Sally’s eye. ‘That bit was true, but it happened earlier. The man caught me and stopped me falling. I started to scream, but he said quickly, “I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He talked posh, like they do on the news, so I thought it was all right.’

  The tears welled again and spilled down her cheeks. Sally waited while she mopped them with the crumpled handkerchief.

  ‘But then he — he said he’d like to touch me, too, and if I let him, he’d give me five pounds.’

  Sally stared at her. Suddenly the story had taken a serious turn. Child molesting? Was that what Nancy had stumbled on?

  ‘He took out the money and put it in my pocket. I knew I shouldn’t, but he was so nice and polite. It didn’t seem much for five pounds. But he — he didn’t do it like Jonathan, and he started breathing all funny-like, and I got scared and ran away.’

  ‘And bumped into Mrs Pendrick?’

  ‘Yes. She asked what was wrong, and I told her. Then I ran home. I was afraid he’d come after me.’

  ‘He didn’t force himself on you?’

  ‘No. He just kept saying, “Please — please — ” in a kind of whimper.’ She shuddered. ‘It was horrid. I keep dreaming about it.’

  ‘Can you describe him, Sharon?’

  ‘I didn’t see his face, it was too dark. But he smelt piney.’ Some identity parade, with the witness sniffing all their after shaves.

  Sharon said again, ‘You won’t tell Mum, will you?’

  Sally hesitated. ‘I’ll have to check on that, but she wouldn’t blame you. It’s something that could happen to anyone.’

  ‘She’d ask why I was there in the first place.’

  ‘How old are you, Sharon?’

  ‘Thirteen and a half.’

  ‘Which school do you go to?’

  ‘Dick Lane Comprehensive.’

  ‘Were Jonathan and Steve there when you came out of the alley?’

  ‘I didn’t see them.’

  Bloody boys, leaving her alone like that!

  A sudden thought struck Sharon, and she said in alarm, ‘You won’t tell on them, will you, at school?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. But I hope you’ve learnt — ’ Sally broke off Sharon patently had learned her lesson, and no amount of moralizing could stamp it any deeper. She said more gently, ‘Thank you for telling us. I know it wasn’t easy, but it’s helped a lot.’

  ‘Was it him that killed the lady?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She shuddered again. ‘He might have killed me!’

  ‘Yes, he might. Never take such risks again.’

  She glanced at Liz with raised eyebrows, and was answered by a nod. ‘You’ll have to sign your statement, Sharon — all the things you’ve told us — but we won’t keep you now. Try to forget about it for the moment.’

  As the door opened Mrs Robinson came to her feet, eyes raking her daughter’s tear-stained face. Sally said quickly, ‘Thank you, Mrs Robinson, Sharon’s been very helpful. Constable Trent will drive you home.’

  And with a dismissive smile, she turned and ran up the stairs to Webb’s office. He was waiting with the door open. ‘Well?’

  ‘You were right, sir, it could be important. She met a groper down there. I don’t think it went any further. Sharon said he was a gentleman and she didn’t realize what he wanted. He gave her five pounds.’

  ‘Ye gods! And she told Nancy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who, still steamed up about Rose and Dean, took on Sharon’s cause too. Dean said she’d tackle anyone.’

  ‘And since he was keyed up and frustrated, he killed her?’

  ‘It seems so, though sexual assault would have been more likely.’

  ‘Perhaps he only likes little girls.’

  ‘Perhaps. Anything else of interest?’

  ‘Not really. She’d gone there with a boyfriend for a spot of petting, and the bloke was watching them. The boy ran off but Sharon stumbled and was left behind.’

  ‘And he abandoned her?’

  ‘Charming, isn’t it?’

  ‘He needs whipping. She could have been murdered.’

  ‘Are you giving her protection?’

  ‘I’ve arranged it, yes. If this was the killer and he thinks she could recognize him, he might go after her. The murder could have pushed her from his mind till the recap on TV, and she’s been away since it was shown. He might be hanging round waiting for his chance. Is the statement being typed?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I didn’t make them wait. I wasn’t sure what Mrs Robinson would come out with, and the kid had had enough.’

  ‘Fair enough. OK, Sally, thanks. Enjoy what remains of the weekend.’

  For some moments after she’d gone, Webb stared broodingly down at his desk. Against its polished surface, mental images came and went, half-memories, crystallizing briefly and then fading. He needed to set it down in black and white, to compile a visual aid which might, as so often in the past, point him to the right conclusion. Tomorrow was Sunday; weather permitting, he’d set off with his easel and, by building up a detailed picture of what he knew, try to arrive at the answer they were all seeking — who killed Nancy Pendrick.

  *

  But the weather was against him. When he drew back his curtains the next morning, fog pressed against the pane. There was nothing for it but to work at home.

  Up in his eyrie Webb cooked eggs and bacon, while in the street below cars crawled along blindly, tooting at every corner. Normally from here he’d a view of gardens falling away to the foot of the hill. Today, he couldn’t see the garage in the drive beneath.

  He turned the eggs, impatient to start work. There were enough facts to make an educated guess; proving it would be another matter.

  Tipping the food on to a plate, he sat down at the table. Beside him, still unread, lay yesterday’s local paper, and as he sipped his coffee he opened it to see Roger Beresford smiling up at him.

  BROADSHIRE MAN HIGH COURT JUDGE ran the headlines. So he’d made it. Good for him. Lady Muck would be pleased. Pushing away the paper, Webb finished his breakfast.

  Ten minutes later the easel was set up, the crayons to hand and he was ready to begin. He started by drawing the section of the town from which Nancy disappear
ed, marking in the relevant places. At the top right of the sheet was the station and in front of it the car park which Henry had used. Just below came Jubilee Road, Nancy’s last port of call, and, a little further down, Wellington Street, home of the Robinsons. Then the Punjabi Gardens beside the alley, the bookmakers’, and, on the corner of Gloucester Circus, the Odeon cinema.

  Webb studied it for several minutes before filling in, on the left, the pawnshop and the Co-operative Stores. Radiating from the Circus like wheel spokes, he duly named Carlton Road, East Parade, Duke Street and the High Street. Each of them was mentioned in the statements, for into this small area had come that afternoon the actors in the drama: Nancy, Dean, Henry, Sharon, the Beresfords, Pussy Barlow. Perhaps, also, Oliver Pendrick? And what of Julian Bayliss? The story might not be as he told it and they still hadn’t checked his alibi. Suppose he’d blurted out his love and Nancy’d laughed at him? Ridicule could be a powerful motive. So which of them had stood in the shadows watching the young lovers?

  Dean could be eliminated. A check on timetables showed that to phone from Paddington at six, he must have caught the four-fifty. There was no way he could have packed his things, killed Nancy, dumped her body, and still made the train.

  Moving on to the next name, Webb considered Henry. What had been his mood that day — worried about money, resentful of having to pawn his things? And it was Nancy’s refusal of help that brought him to Shillingham. Suppose that, coming on the petting session, he’d over-reacted? The girl was closest to him in age; in the dark, not to mention the circumstances, he could well have thought her older. And if Nancy of all people came storming round the corner — and recognized him — he might, in a panic, have killed her.

  Or were they wrong to link the killer and Sharon’s ‘gentleman’? They might be two separate people who had passed in the alley, little guessing they’d be merged into one in the mind of officialdom.

  Webb tore off the sheet and it floated to the floor as he started on the dramatis personae. Within minutes, he’d peopled the page with startling likenesses of the Pendricks and their friends: Oliver with his thick hair, the bump in his nose exaggerated as were all caricatures; Henry, thin and nervous; Beresford, whom, for his own amusement, Webb decked out in wig and gown; and Rose — beautiful, heartless Rose, who’d encouraged poor Dean in his daydreams and who, by bringing Nancy to Shillingham, had inadvertently caused her death.