‘Aye.’ Craig stared hard at Mac, then turned away. ‘I’ve got a job,’ he told Ruth. ‘At the pub down the road. The boss said I had to go on Friday for a trial.’
‘Well done!’ said Ruth. ‘Look, Craig, I have to go the doctor. I won’t be long.’ She looked meaningfully at Mac. ‘I’ll see you to the door,’ she said.
He followed her down the hall. ‘Chill, Mrs Hartwell. I only wanted to talk to you.’
‘I can’t tell you anything about Christian,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve not been much involved with him for a long time now.’
‘But you’re his mother, aren’t you? His next of kin?’
She bit on her lip, judging that silence was best.
‘And his sister is called Harriet, is that right? He used to talk about her.’
Ruth swallowed.
‘I really must get to my appointment,’ she said, unlocking her old Ford Escort and praying it would start.
He shut the driver’s door for her. His eyes bored into her. A smile slithered over his face as she let in the clutch.
She drove down the road, not knowing where she was heading, her hands shaking. She knew that he knew she had been lying.
And he knew that she had a daughter, he knew her name. And if things didn’t work out with Mrs Hartwell she could be the next lever.
As soon as he heard Ruth’s car start up Craig, who had been standing behind the door listening carefully to the final exchanges between her and the man who called himself Mac the Knife, moved softly down the hallway. Mac the Knife was sauntering down the path. He glanced back once, but Craig had hidden himself in the shadow behind the door. He stepped out of the door as the creepy guy rounded the gate post. He pushed at the latch to click it in open position, but drew the door against the frame so that the dog would not get out, and he would be able to get back in.
When he reached the road he kept well back, watching every step Mac the Knife took as he walked along the road. Quite soon he paused at a bus stop just as a bus approached, hopped on and was swallowed up into the bus within seconds.
Craig stood still, waiting until the bus was out of sight. ‘Smart move,’ he muttered in grudging admiration of the creepy guy’s efforts to render himself untraceable.
He looked up and down the road, hoping he would see Ruth’s car. She’d been upset by the guy, he could tell. And she was an old lady. He hoped she wouldn’t do anything daft. He made his way back to the house and sat on the kitchen floor, dipping his head and resting his hands between his knees. The dog came out of her basket and sat beside him, leaning her weight against his ribs. And then he waited.
Swift found the landlord of the Black Sheep Inn serving at the bar and joking with a small, all male, clientele. He was a man in his fifties, of a chunky build, and with gnarled weather beaten features. He immediately broke off his banter with his customers on seeing Swift. ‘Now sir, what can I get you?’
Swift looked at the array of bitters on offer and pushed away the temptation of ordering half a pint of ale. The current zero tolerance on drinking was not to be taken lightly. Instead, he showed his warrant card and was instantly rewarded by the landlord’s suggestion that they should go and sit somewhere quieter to talk. ‘Aye, Tom,’ he called out to one of his customers, ‘just take over serving on for a few minutes while I go and persuade this gentleman I’ve no wicked deeds to answer for.’
He led Swift through to the parlour where he had spoken with Charles Brunswick the previous day.
‘Albert Smart, licensee of this hostelry,’ the landlord said. ‘How can I help you, Detective Chief Inspector? Was it you that came yesterday?’
‘It was. I spoke to one of your residents, Mr Charles Brunswick.’
‘Oh, aye. And now you’ve come again; one of the top brasses. Which makes me think something important must be up?’
‘I’ve come in connection with a murder enquiry,’ Swift told him. ‘We were hoping Mr Brunswick would be able to help us further.’
‘Well now, you’re going to be disappointed. Mr Brunswick left earlier this morning, with his lady wife. You’ll have to catch up with him elsewhere. Probably down in the capital.’
‘I was hoping you might be able to help me, Mr Smart.’
‘Were you now? I’ll do me best.’
‘We’re interested to know where Mr Brunswick was on Tuesday last between the hours of 2 and 8 a.m.’
Smart laughed. ‘You don’t go for the easy questions, do you Chief Inspector? The fact of the matter is I sleep like the dead between those hours you mention. However, my wife wakes at the sound of a feather dropping so why don’t I go get her and see if she can throw any light on the matter.’
He went off and very soon returned with a plump, attractive blonde woman dressed in a navy and white summer frock, its neat belt accentuating her curves.
‘This is Iris,’ the landlord said. ‘The lady of the house.’
Iris smiled at Swift. ‘You’re asking about last Tuesday night,’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’
Being accustomed to a good deal of ducking and diving when being questioned, Swift was impressed by the couple’s directness. ‘I’d like to know if Mr Charles Brunswick, one of your residents, was here during those hours?’
‘Monday,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That’s the day they arrived.’
‘Did they have dinner here, love?’ her husband asked.
She held up her hand. ‘Don’t interrupt, I’m just trying to get the pictures in my mind. Monday. Right, Monday is one of my days for serving in the dining room. And, yes, they had dinner here that night. I could check it in the book, but I’m totally sure. We had roast duck on the menu that evening and she was very complimentary about it, which was nice of her. They had coffee and then they ordered a second bottle of wine and sat talking. They didn’t come into the bar and they went to bed around 10.15.’
Albert shook his head. ‘I don’t know how she remembers all this stuff. I can hardly remember what happened this morning. But she’s invariably spot on, even going back years.’
Iris shrugged. ‘It’s just a knack.’
‘Where was Mr Brunswick’s car parked?’ Swift asked.
‘Oh, out on the front,’ Iris said, straightaway. ‘I kept eyeing it up; it was a real swanky motor. Fancy number plate too.’
‘And was it there all night – between Monday and Tuesday morning?’ Swift asked.
‘Oh, yes. I’d have heard if it had started up. I’m a very light sleeper. But Mr Brunswick would have had a job on if he’d wanted to use it in the night. Our son got in late on Monday and parked behind it and blocked him in. He sometimes does that if everywhere else is parked up. If there’s an emergency he’ll move it right away, or we will. But most customers here sleep like babies, it’s so quiet and the air’s very enervating for people not used to the countryside.’
‘You sound pretty sure of your details, Mrs Smart,’ Swift remarked.
‘I am, yes,’ she said.
Swift believed her. She struck him as all capability and common sense and blunt straightforwardness.
‘What time did your son move the car the next morning?’ he asked.
‘About a quarter past seven. That’s his usual time to set off to work. It was just as well, because Mr Brunswick came down a few minutes later and went out in the car. He wasn’t gone long, came back with some newspapers. They ordered breakfast in bed and I didn’t see either or them till lunchtime.’
‘They seemed a very happily married couple,’ Albert Smart remarked with meaning, giving Swift a man-to-man glance. ‘Iris had quite a job most days finding a slot to get in the room to tidy up.’
Iris’s lips tightened. ‘That’s true. But you have to live and let live. It’s none of our business.’
‘No, love,’ Albert agreed, slightly chastened. ‘Does that fit the bill, Chief Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Thank you both; it was very useful.’
‘Are you investigating the death of this man Chri
stian Hartwell who was found at Fellbeck Crag?’ Mrs Smart asked. ‘I saw a report in the Echo.’
‘You see,’ her husband exclaimed, ‘she knows everything.’
‘I used to know Mrs Hartwell just after she had Harriet,’ Mrs Smart said. ‘We were both members of the Mother’s Union. She was one of those people who would help anyone in trouble, and, do you know, I never heard her say an unkind word about anyone. I used to wish I had it in me to be such a genuinely good person. I’d never have had the courage to take on someone else’s child like she did. Christian was a bit wild in his teens. Well, that’s what I thought, but Ruth and her husband simply accepted him for what he was and dealt with whatever came up.’
‘Did you know him personally?’
‘No, only what Mrs Hartwell told me. But Albert and I moved away from the area when he was about sixteen and I lost touch then. I’m presuming he opted to take the Hartwell’s name.’
Swift nodded.
‘Well, you can’t get a bigger compliment than that, can you.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Ruth, this death will have hit her hard.’ She paused. ‘Do you really think Mr Brunswick might have had something to do with Christian’s death?’
‘We’re simply eliminating people from our enquiries, Mrs Smart.’
She smiled. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’
Albert cleared his throat. ‘Well, I hope Mr Brunswick is off the hook, he seemed a nice bloke. Are you sure you won’t have one for the road?’ he asked Swift as they moved back into the bar. ‘On the house, of course. Our Black Sheep bitter is like nectar.’
Swift smiled. ‘Not in the rule book,’ he said. ‘I’ll come another time when I’m not on duty.’
‘Bring the wife,’ Albert said. ‘We keep a very nice Chardonnay for the ladies.’
Swift manoeuvred his car out of the tiny parking area, thinking that Charles Brunswick had a lot for which to thank Iris Smart and her careful observation of her residents.
Craig heard Ruth’s footsteps in the hallway and jumped to his feet.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked her.
‘I’ve just been driving around. I’m fine.’ She sank down on a chair and unwound the long scarf she was wearing round her neck.
Craig watched her with concern. ‘I was worried about you.’ She gave him a grateful smile.
He sat down at the table opposite her, having no clue of what he might say next. He just wanted her to be all right.
‘Tell me about this new job,’ she said.
‘It’s at the pub down the road. Clearing up in the kitchen, washing up and the mopping the floors and stuff.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘I’ve to go in on Friday. Eight o’clock sharp, the boss said. The weekend is when they’re busy.’
‘Did they ask for references?’
‘What?’
She looked at him, knowing the answer. ‘Never mind.’
He heard weariness and sadness in her voice.
She got up slowly and went across to one of the drawers in the kitchen cupboards. Craig watched as she pulled out a white envelope and a bunch of keys. She took a small glinting instrument from the midst of a bunch of pens crammed into a mug on the unit top and began to slit the envelope open. Then suddenly changed her mind and dropped both the envelope and the opener on to the table.
‘Is that blade sharp?’ Craig asked, alarmed to see what looked like a small dagger which had made a good job of slicing its way half way through a few inches of the thick white paper.
She smiled. ‘It’s a paper-opener. I don’t think it would be much good for doing any serious damage.’
Craig stared at her, not sure whether she was joking or not. ‘You don’t want to do anyone any serious damage, do you?’
‘No,’ she reassured him. ‘I don’t want to do any serious damage of any kind,’ she said dryly.
He watched her with concern on his face. ‘If you’re in trouble with someone, I’ll sort them out for you.’
‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly.
He was not mollified. ‘That guy who was here before. The creepy one with the piggy eyes. It’s him you’re in trouble with, isn’t it?’
Ruth frowned, not quite sure what or how much to say.
‘I followed him,’ Craig said.
Ruth gazed at him. ‘Good heavens!’
‘He got on a bus, so there’s no knowing where he was off to. I thought if he got in a car I could have got the reg number.’
‘Yes,’ said Ruth, faintly. ‘Listen,’ she went on, her voice firmer, ‘I don’t fully understand what that man who called himself Mac was talking about. But it seems to me that he thinks I’ve got something he wants. Some photographs.’
‘Well, have you?’
She shook her head. ‘Not that I know of, that’s the worrying thing.’
‘The bastard,’ hissed Craig. ‘I hate him.’ But hate was too soft a word. In his head he thought he would like to kill him.
*
Cat had tried to make an appointment to see Ruth talk to her about the team’s investigations and their conclusions, but she seemed to be often out, or maybe she didn’t bother to answer the phone every time it rang. She decided to simply drive to the Old School House and see if Ruth was in.
Reaching the house, she parked the car and killed the engine. Pulling the bell, she anticipated its quirky tinkle, which did not disappoint her.
Ruth answered promptly, her dog trotting behind like Mary’s little lamb. ‘Oh! Inspector Fallon!’ Cat saw surprise, then a fleeting relief cross her face, to be finally replaced with a hunted look of anxiety.
‘Is it convenient to have a word?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course. Come in.’
The young man sitting at the kitchen table was still and wary-looking, his eyes lighting on Cat and staying there.
‘This is Craig,’ Ruth told Swift. ‘He’s staying here for a while.’ She seemed to be on the point of saying something further and then decided against it.
Cat smiled at the young man, whose dark hair almost obscured his eyes, making it difficult to assess his mood. Another of Ruth’s lame ducks, she assumed. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Inspector Cat Fallon.’
There was a definite spasm of alarm on the young man’s face as he grunted an acknowledgement.
‘Craig,’ said Ruth, brightly. ‘Would you mind popping down to the shops and getting some milk, we’re running a bit short?’ She dug out her purse from a battered handbag, and handed the young man a two-pound coin.
He looked at her warm smile of encouragement and got to his feet. ‘Aye, sure.’
After the door had closed behind him, Ruth looked Cat straight in the eye. ‘He’s just served a long prison sentence. I used to do prison visiting some years ago, and Craig was one of my regulars. In time he was moved to a unit up in the north-east, so I lost touch. He was released a few days ago.’
‘And he simply turned up on your doorstep?’ Cat suggested, a note of wryness in her voice.
Ruth smiled. ‘Yes. Right out of the blue.’
‘You obviously inspire trust,’ Cat said.
‘My daughter says I’m just a soft touch,’ Ruth observed. ‘He’s staying here for a while to find his feet.’ she added, with a hint of defensiveness.’
‘You’ve no need to justify your hospitable tendencies to me,’ Cat said, gently.
‘Ah, well, there’s good and bad in this world. And there’s brave and there’s foolish. You just have to work out what seems to be the right path for you, as an individual, to follow. I know many people would say I’m a sentimental fool for letting an ex-convict into my home. But I believe I can help him, and … I like him here. I’m sometimes far more lonely than I allow my family to know.’
Ruth got up and switched on the kettle. Cat watched her take a full carton of milk from the fridge and then calmly pour it down the sink. ‘There, I knew I was running out,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back in no time with the fresh milk. He’s learning to be a good s
hopper.’ She fussed about at the counter, dropping tea bags into her white china teapot, and rattling spoons. She said nothing more, simply brought mugs of tea to the table and sat down again. Cat had the impression the issue of Craig and his current residence in the Hartwell household was temporarily closed, and she decided not to push further.
‘Chief Inspector Swift has completed a report regarding Christian’s death,’ Cat told her. She explained what he had discovered during his investigations and sketched out the recommendations in his report to his superior officer. ‘Unfortunately we still don’t have any witnesses who have come forward to help us. However, I’ve just had information from our Scene of Crime Officers team to say that they found traces of blood on the stones over which we believe Christian fell, and they match the samples we had taken from his body, so at least we have precise knowledge of where he fell from.’
Ruth listened carefully. ‘Does that help you?’
‘Not very much, I’m afraid. Is there anything you have thought of, Mrs Hartwell, since we last talked? Anything at all which could have a bearing on Christian’s death?’
Ruth hesitated for a few moments. ‘I was invited in to see my solicitor earlier on today. Christian has made a will in my favour. He’s left me everything – his apartment, all his personal belongings and his money. It’s unbelievable, and also very sad. I can’t quite get to grips with it.’
Cat’s expression sharpened. ‘Do you know when the will was made?’
‘About ten days ago. Of course I’m aware that the making of the will so soon before Christian’s death must mean something.’
‘As though he had some inkling of what was coming?’
‘Possibly. And yet again, maybe it was sheer coincidence. After all, he had recently received a large legacy from an aunt, and he also had the expectation of further money from his book if it was a success. All reasons to make a will.’ Her mind surged on to the packet she had not opened. And the arrival of the unwanted visitor. The urge to confide in Cat Fallon regarding Mac the Knife was overwhelming, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Somehow, telling her would make the covert menace of the man worse, make it more real.
The Killing Club Page 11