Around him, Sunday life went on. The family at No. 5 returned from church; in No. 3, Hannah, unaware Webb was in the building, roasted her beef and ate alone. And still, isolated by the fog, wrapped in an eerie solitude, he worked on, while the muffled afternoon darkened to evening. It was there, he felt, if only he could spot it, the discrepancy which would shake the kaleidoscope of facts into a new pattern. Someone had lied. Who, and in what respect?
At five, in response to his growling stomach, he stopped for food. A gentleman, Sharon had said. Apart from Dean, they all spoke well. Pity she’d been so vague on descriptions. They hadn’t even tied down age, though to a child of thirteen that was at best relative.
He ate standing at the window, his reflected image staring back from the opaque darkness. At breakfast he’d been eager to start, confident of reaching the right conclusion. Now, more than eight hours later, he was tired and dispirited. But he might as well face it, no convenient tramp would materialize and confess. There, on this sheet of paper, he’d already drawn the murderer. He had only to take off his blinkers to see who it was. Personally, he felt he’d do better with a pin.
He rinsed his plate under the tap and left it on the draining-board. Perhaps the confines of the room constricted him. Perhaps he needed the openness of fields and sky for his mind to roam free. Excuses, excuses, he thought, sitting at the easel. For ten, fifteen minutes, he stared at his drawing, till its lines blurred and separated into black dots. He blinked, rubbed his eyes and picked up a crayon.
Start again, then. Go over it from the beginning, and by heaven if there was anything there, he’d find it.
Henry first. Crayon in hand, Webb traced the boy’s route from the station car park. He’d have crossed the road about — here — and gone into the pawnshop. Then, according to his statement, he’d walked round the corner into the High Street. He mentioned Boots, which was about here, and Payne’s the shoe shop. That was quite a way along.
Webb stared frowningly at the cross marking the position of the shoe shop. Just beyond it was Dick Lane, which linked the High Street with Station Road and came out opposite the station. Surely, with his parking time running out, Henry’d have taken the short cut back instead of returning via the Circus?
Webb felt a sudden tingling on his scalp. But Beresford had seen him! Knocking over the stool in his haste, he reached for his pocket-book, flicking rapidly through its pages in search of the Pendricks’ phone number. Seconds later Henry, sounding surprised, confirmed his assumption. He had not returned to the Circus, but cut through Dick Lane back to the car. The only time he’d have been visible from the cinema was when he left the pawnshop around four-fifteen.
Webb replaced the phone and stared down at it, his mind racing. God, no! he thought instinctively. Not Beresford! He went back to the easel, righting the stool as he unwillingly pursued the new train of thought. But there was no disputing that if, as he said, he’d seen Henry, Beresford must have come out of the cinema a good forty-five minutes earlier than he claimed. So why had he lied? Because his alibi depended on timing? Because it was he who had turned down the alley en route for the car park, stopped to watch Sharon and her boyfriend, and — ?
If Nancy had stormed round the corner, coming face to face not with Henry but with Roger — what then? Webb stared at the bewigged cartoon, imagining his pleas. But an imminent judgeship wouldn’t silence Nancy.
He thought back to the Chelsea interview. ‘I’ve seen the film three times — not much of an alibi.’ Could Beresford have been so honest if he’d needed that alibi?
Perhaps the ability to act, to disguise his feelings, was inherent in his profession. Webb would only know for sure after seeing him.
He tidied his work away. For the first time he could remember, he regretted the conclusion it had led to. Dammit, he liked the man, respected him. Oddly, he found it easier to accept him as murderer than as pervert. Still, thank God, it wasn’t his place to judge him.
In the kitchen he picked up the paper again, staring down at the smiling face. Then, dropping it on the table, he turned away. Though tired of his own company, it was pointless to venture out in the foggy darkness. Still, if Hannah was home —
He phoned down, his spirits lifting as she answered. ‘Can you spare a few hours for a weary copper?’
‘Of course. I was just thinking about you.’
‘Be with you in five minutes,’ he said happily, and hung up.
CHAPTER 16
Jackson stared at him in horror. ‘A High Court Judge? In an identity parade?’
‘I’m afraid so, Ken. Let’s see what aftershave His Lordship uses. But first we’ll pop round to the school and see Sharon. There’s her statement to be signed, and she might have remembered something.’
Dick Lane Comprehensive was in the small road which had proved Beresford’s undoing. There was ironic justice there. The school had started life as a Secondary Modern, expanding to embrace the buildings on either side when it aspired to Comprehension. The result, to Webb’s eyes, was sprawling and makeshift.
As they drew up outside, he caught sight of WDC Day at a discreet distance. With luck, she’d soon be relieved from duty.
The Headmaster was a small, self-important man, whose timetable made no provision for police visits. He showed them to his study, and left them while he dispatched someone to find Sharon.
Jackson shifted his feet uncomfortably. The smell of chalk and ink and young bodies evoked in him a powerful sense of recall. How often had he stood in such a room, regretting skipped homework, owning up to broken windows, hoping to deflect a bad report — never, it seemed, for any pleasant purpose. No prizes or commendations had come his way, but he hadn’t been seen by the police, either.
His reminiscence was broken by a tap on the door and Sharon came in. To Webb’s relief, she seemed more composed than when he’d last seen her. Perhaps, having confessed her misdemeanours, she’d resolved to forget them.
‘We’ve brought your statement along,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Will you read it through, please, and then sign it?’
They waited in silence while she went through the typed sheets, a frown of concentration between her eyes. There was a smudge of ink on her cheek and in her grey skirt and jumper she looked touchingly young. Webb’s heart hardened against her molester.
She looked up. Reading the statement didn’t seem to have distressed her. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said.
‘Then will you sign it, please?’
He handed her his pen and she leant on the desk to write, her single heavy plait swinging over her shoulder.
‘Thank you.’ He took the papers from her and passed them to Jackson. ‘Now, Sharon, we’re arranging an identity parade. You know what that is?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve seen them on telly.’
‘The men will repeat in turn the words that were said. You might recognize a voice. Have you remembered anything since you spoke to Miss Pierce?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Webb thought of Roger Beresford. What was his most distinguishing feature? The lock of hair falling over his brow? He said on impulse, ‘I know it was dark, but concentrate for a moment. You must have noticed something, even if subconsciously. His hair, for instance. Was he bald?’
She stared at him, memory stirring at the back of her eyes. ‘No. I remember now, it flopped over his face.’
Webb drew a deep breath. It wasn’t much, but it was something. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, except that he talked nice.’
‘All right, Sharon, thank you. That’s all. We’ll be in touch when everything’s arranged.’
Jackson was glad to leave that study, with its registers and exercise books. Schooldays hadn’t been the happiest of his life, that’s for sure.
‘Off to London, then?’ he asked, as Webb fastened his seat-belt.
‘Yep. The car should know its way by now. Still,’ he added grimly, ‘it’ll be the last time, on this case at least.’
&n
bsp; ‘He might be in Surrey,’ Jackson suggested.
‘Not mid-week. Anyway, the News said he’s attending a function this evening. God, Ken, I’m not looking forward to this.’
*
Roger said, ‘Hello, Charlotte. It’s good of you to come.’
‘A pleasure — I can congratulate you in person. Well done, Roger, it’s splendid news and well-deserved.’
‘Let me take your coat.’
She walked ahead of him to the drawing-room, stopping in surprise to find it empty. ‘Where’s Faith?’
‘Having her hair done, for tonight’s dinner. There’s coffee on the tray, if you’d like to pour.’
Charlotte glanced at him curiously. There was an air of detachment about him that she couldn’t quite gauge. Perhaps, she thought, amused, he was practising for his elevated position. Roger set great store by appearances.
She poured from the silver coffee-pot. The cups, she noted, were Crown Derby. ‘Well, what’s all this about? Why the urgent request to see me?’
He didn’t answer at once. He took the cup and saucer from her, absent-mindedly stirring though, as she knew, it was years since he’d taken sugar.
‘I needed to talk, Charlotte, and apart from Avis you’re the only one I’ve ever been able to talk to. You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not. What do you want to talk about?’
‘Old times,’ he said, surprising her. ‘I was remembering, as we drove over at New Year, all those Christmases when we were young. They were good times, weren’t they?’
‘Very good, yes.’ Charlotte was puzzled. Had he brought her fifty miles to talk about the past?
‘It did snow, didn’t it, when we went carol-singing? They say we’ve had few white Christmases this century, but I don’t believe it.’
‘I’m sure it snowed.’ Her eyes were on his face.
‘And then, when we were older, all those parties and dances.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘That’s when I fell in love with you.’ He looked at her with the shy diffidence he’d never outgrown. ‘I really did love you, you know.’
‘And I you,’ she said gently. ‘Just not enough for marriage.’
‘Not enough,’ he echoed. ‘The story of my life. Only Avis loved me enough. God, how I miss her!’
Charlotte moved uneasily. He was in a strange mood and she doubted the reason he’d given for her summons. Nevertheless, something inside her was responding to his need and, uncertain why he needed comfort, she tried to offer it.
‘Twins are special, of course, but you underestimate the rest of us. Your parents, for instance — ’
‘They started it. They were always hugging and kissing Avis, but if I climbed on someone’s knee, I was put down and told to be “a little man”. Odd, how that’s stayed with me all these years.’
‘But it didn’t mean anything,’ Charlotte protested, wondering why, after forty-odd years, she must now defend the Beresfords. ‘In those days, people thought little boys — ’
‘And I needed it far more than she did — to be held close and told I was loved. How else could I know? To me, touching’s an essential part of loving.’ He sighed. ‘Not to everyone, though. Faith for one loathes me “pawing” her, as she calls it.’
Charlotte said gently, ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because I need someone to understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘Me,’ he answered simply. ‘Bear with me, Charlotte, it’s important. I’m just saying I’ve been held at arm’s length all my life. Avis apart, the only spontaneous love I’ve had has been from children — particularly Rose.’
He was silent, staring across the room into a past Charlotte couldn’t after all share. Beneath her pity, unease was growing.
Roger smiled suddenly. ‘When she was little, I sometimes used to bath her. I still dream of that sturdy little body, and the way she’d fling her arms round my neck and hug me. She couldn’t have known what it meant to me. Oh, it wasn’t sexual — I hope I needn’t add that — just sheer animal touching, an expression of belonging. Then, of course, she grew up and the contact was broken.
‘Still — ’ he straightened his shoulders — ‘there have been compensations, my career for one. My career.’ He paused, then went on, ‘I was desperate to prove myself, and since people are impressed by success, I hoped that might do the trick. I thought it had worked when Faith married me, but I was wrong. Oh, she’s fond of me. She enjoys having a rich and successful husband, but she doesn’t want me in her bed.’
Charlotte said abruptly, ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ Her fingers shook as she extracted a cigar from her case. Ever the gentleman, Roger came over with a light. His hand, too, was shaking. God, she thought suddenly, what am I doing here?
He returned to his chair and, bending over its arm, retrieved a pocket recorder. Charlotte said sharply, ‘What’s that for?’
‘Ignore it, if you can. What I’m saying could be of interest to a psychologist.’
‘Roger, is something seriously wrong?’
He laughed with genuine amusement. ‘You could say that.’
‘Then tell me, so I can help.’
‘That, Charlotte, is what I’m doing.’
There was a febrile excitement about him which reminded her of his dead sister and stirred into life all the uncomfortable feelings she’d once had for him — tenderness, protectiveness, and a helpless, unwilling irritation. She glanced at her watch, wondering how soon Faith would be back.
‘Oddly enough,’ he went on, ‘I was thinking of Rose that afternoon in the cinema. A child there looked much as she had at seven or eight. And suddenly everything I’ve been talking about welled up inside me. I suppose, to be coldly factual, it was an orgy of self-pity. I did my best to fight it, listing all the successes I’d had, and so on; but I’d have traded the lot for one person who unreservedly loved me. The cinema was hot and I couldn’t concentrate on the film — I knew it by heart, anyway. My stomach was churning and I had to get out.
‘I stood on the steps for a while, drawing deep breaths of cold air. It was then I saw Henry.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Never elaborate: how often have I drummed that into my clients? It’ll strike them eventually that the timing doesn’t fit. Perhaps it already has.’
‘Strike whom?’ Charlotte asked out of a dry mouth. Was he mentally ill? Was that what he meant about a psychologist?
‘The police.’
‘The — ?’ She leant forward urgently, incredible ideas colliding in her head. ‘Roger, what are we talking about?’
‘The day Nancy died.’
She stared at him whitely. ‘What has Nancy to do with this? Were you in love with her?’
‘God, no. She’s nothing to do with it — nothing. That’s the tragedy.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more.’ The reason for the recorder was suddenly, appallingly, evident and her fear for him exploded into anger. ‘You’ve no right to use me as Father Confessor.’
‘The right of friendship, Charlotte? Won’t you accept that?’
She ground out her cigar. ‘Go on, if you must.’
‘Thank you. As I was saying, I saw Henry. He came out of a seedy-looking shop and walked round the corner into the High Street. The town clock was chiming the quarter past four. Faith wouldn’t be finished at the hairdresser’s for another hour.’
He smiled suddenly. ‘Strange, isn’t it? At the most crucial moments of my life, my wife is at the hairdresser’s! There must be a moral somewhere. Anyway, I decided to go for a drive and sort myself out. But on the way to the car park, I came across a young couple kissing. They were in that alleyway — you know the one?’
Charlotte nodded.
‘I moved back against the wall and watched them for a while. The girl’s head was back and the boy’s hand inside her coat. Touching.’
Charlotte sat unmoving.
‘I must have been staring too hard. The boy raised his head and saw me. He sho
uted some filth — frightened, I suppose — and set off for the main road. The girl started after him, but she stumbled and would have fallen if I hadn’t caught her. That was all I meant to do, but the warm, living feel of her, her breathing still quick from the boy’s kisses — it ignited everything inside me. She seemed to turn into Rose, who in her innocence had let me touch her.
‘I don’t know what I said — it’s a merciful blur. I gave her money — I remember that — and I started to caress her. At first she didn’t object. Then, as I grew excited, she became frightened and ran away. I didn’t hurt her, Charlotte, I swear it. Even if she’d stayed, I shouldn’t have gone further. But she ran away.’
He wiped a hand across his brow, pushing back the soft hair. ‘God knows, if I’d been in my right mind I’d have got the hell out myself, but I literally couldn’t move. I just clung to the wall, unable to believe what had happened. And the next minute, Nancy came charging round the corner in search of me. Or rather, in search of the monster who’d molested the child.’
‘Oh God!’ Charlotte breathed. ‘No!’
‘You know, until I saw the recap on TV I hadn’t realized how young the girl was. Not that I thought about it, I was past being rational. And you can imagine Nancy’s attitude — self-righteous to the last.’ He paused. ‘God, that was apt, wasn’t it? I tried to bluster, of course, but she could see the state I was in and she just let fly. I made no attempt to stop her — I agreed with everything she said. But she was still haranguing me when some people turned into the alley, and the last thing I wanted was an audience. So since she wouldn’t stop ranting, I took her arm and led her to the car park.
‘My car was at the far end, away from the others. By this time, I was trying to calm her down, but I was far from calm myself. I told her I’d been appointed a judge, but that didn’t weigh with her. She replied — quite rightly — that I wasn’t fit to judge anyone. I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. She raved on and on, accusing me of all kinds of perversion, and suddenly I’d had enough. Also, there were people at the far side of the car park, and her voice was rising.’
David Webb 2 - A Necessary End Page 17