by J F Straker
‘I don’t know what you’re gassing about,’ the man said angrily. ‘And stop calling me Main, damn you! I told you, the name’s Barker.’
Connor reckoned it was time to get tough.
‘We’ll let the police decide that,’ he said. ‘My name is Mallorie and I’m staying at the Malt House in Felborough. You may not know who B is but you must know H. So I’ll ring you at five o’clock tomorrow. Give me a name then and I’ll forget I’ve seen you. Otherwise you can bloody well take the consequences.’
The man clenched his fists. He was shorter than Connor but clearly heavier. ‘You threatening me, mate?’
‘You might say that.’
‘You are, are you?’ He thrust his head forward and spat. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something, Mr. Bleeding Mallorie. I got friends, see? So watch your step, mate, or they’ll bleeding well fix you.’
‘You watch yours too,’ Connor said, annoyed. He took out a handkerchief and wiped spittle from his sleeve. ‘And it wouldn’t hurt you to watch your manners.’
There was a fair crowd in the cellar bar at lunchtime. Connor talked to Harry when Harry was free to talk. He gave him the same story as he had given Mrs. Main and the others, and Harry was impressed. He had never met an author before, he said; what books had Mr. Mallorie written? None, Connor said, he was a freelance journalist, not a novelist; he had been chosen to write this particular book because he had specialised in reporting criminal trials. So why had he picked on the Rebecca Main murder? Harry asked. For it was definitely murder, not manslaughter; everyone knew that. The bastard ought to have got life, not a miserable seven years. Come to think of it, he’d be out now, wouldn’t he? Free to kill some other poor woman who wouldn’t give him what he wanted.
‘Probably,’ Connor said, restraining the desire to speak in his own defence. ‘You gave evidence at the trial, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Harry looked surprised. ‘Were you there, sir?’
‘No. But I’ve read it up, of course. Tell me about it.’
Harry told him. It wasn’t exactly as Connor remembered it — the importance of Harry’s evidence was exaggerated — but the gist was there. Connor bought two more whiskies and said he would value Harry’s impression of what took place in the bar that September evening. It was the convicted man’s first visit there, wasn’t it? That’s right, Harry said. He had never seen the man before and had taken an instant dislike to him. Intuition, he supposed; a barman got smart at summing up a new customer. The man had been good-looking in a way, but coarse with it. ‘About your height, Mr. Mallorie, but heavier and clean-shaven. He came in with Mr. Northropp and Mr. Fitt — him as was the planning officer here — and —’
‘Was?’ Connor said. ‘Has Mr. Fitt retired?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘That’s right. It happened a few months after Becky was killed. Drove his car into a tree.’ Harry shook his head. ‘They said he was tight and I expect he was; he’d been drinking heavily for quite some months. But he looked no worse than usual when he left here that evening.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Connor said, and meant it. ‘Any particular reason for his hitting the bottle?’
‘There always is, isn’t there?’ Harry said. ‘But Mr. Fitt — I wouldn’t know, sir.’
The three men had stood talking and drinking for about forty minutes, Harry said. Then Mr. Fitt had left, and shortly afterwards Northropp and Connor had joined Becky and her two companions. ‘I could see he fancied her,’ Harry said. ‘He’d been eyeing her ever since she came in.’
‘Who were her companions?’ Connor asked.
‘Mr. Grant and Mr. Draper,’ Harry said.
‘You’ve got a good memory.’
‘Yes. Well, that evening was sort of special, wasn’t it?’
‘Do Grant and Draper still use the bar?’
‘Not as much as they did. Mr. Grant got married about three years ago — they had the reception here — and Mr. Draper — well, he’s getting on, isn’t he? It makes a difference.’ Harry nodded down the bar. ‘That’s Mr. Grant. The gentleman in the check suit.’
Six years had not changed Grant. Connor hadn’t recognised him because he hadn’t seen him. His view had been blocked by a group of men who had now moved back from the bar.
‘Who’s the man with him?’ he asked.
‘Mr. Sellers. He’s a farmer. Lives out towards Hemsworth.’
‘Would he have known Becky?’
Harry shrugged. ‘I can’t say as he knew her. But he must have seen her. He’s been coming here for years.’
‘I might have a word with them later,’ Connor said. ‘Anyone who knew Becky — well, they might be able to help. Tell me — that superintendent who was in charge of the case — Superintendent Brummit. Was he one of your customers?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Never seen him until he called in early the morning they found her. Wanted to know if she’d been in the bar the night before. So I told him. About Connor, I mean.’
‘Early? How early?’
‘Bloody early. I was only just up.’
Connor remembered that Perfect had questioned Brummit closely about that visit. At the time Connor had thought the questions superfluous; what did it matter how Brummit had learned that Becky frequented the Malt House? Now they assumed a certain significance. For Brummit to be H or B, or any other of the characters referred to in Becky’s diary, would provide a more rational explanation for his visit than the one he had given in court. Unless ...
‘Was Sergeant Vaisey a customer here?’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Sergeant Vaisey. The superintendent’s sidekick.’
Harry frowned, considering. ‘No. No, I’m sure he wasn’t. Funny thing, though the name rings a bell. Can’t think why.’
‘The trial,’ Connor suggested.
‘Yes, must be. I’d have said it was later, but — no, like you said, sir, the trial.’
‘Talking of the trial,’ Connor said. ‘If my memory isn’t at fault you said in your evidence that just occasionally Becky left here alone.’ Harry nodded. ‘How would she get home? There’s no bus at that hour, is there?’
‘No. But maybe she met someone outside. Otherwise she’d have to take a taxi.’
‘From Godman’s?’
‘Yes.’ Harry grinned. ‘Could be she paid in kind. I know Tom fancied her.’
‘Tom?’
‘Tom Lofthouse. He’s manager at Godman’s. Married Beryl Godman, the old man’s daughter. She’s older than Tom and no looker, but she sort of went with the business.’
Connor moved along the bar to join Grant and Sellers. Apologising for the intrusion, he introduced himself in his role as James Mallorie; he had told his story of the book so often that it now rolled quite glibly off his tongue. Sellers looked puzzled, Grant slightly apprehensive. Both insisted they could supply no worthwhile information — and wasn’t he being unduly optimistic, Sellers said, in expecting to uncover fresh evidence after so long an interval? Hadn’t it all been said at the trial? ‘You gave evidence, didn’t you, Adam?’ Sellers said. ‘How did it seem to you? Was the verdict a fair one?’
‘It seemed fair to me,’ Grant said. Connor noticed that his voice had thickened slightly, but it still had a squeak to it. ‘Verged on leniency, I’d say. I was expecting a verdict of murder. So were most people, I fancy.’
‘It may have seemed fair on the evidence,’ Connor said. ‘The evidence presented in court, that is. Unfortunately it was incomplete. The police were so sure they had the right man they skipped much of the routine stuff.’
‘Such as what?’ Sellers asked.
‘Such as examining her personal effects. Letters, photographs, chequebook — that sort of thing.’
‘Remiss of them, certainly,’ Sellers said. ‘But not significant, I imagine. Anyway, that’s water under the bridge. It’s gone.’
‘Wrong,’ Connor said. ‘It hasn’t. Mrs. Main has a magpie nature. She kept ever
ything, including her daughter’s diary. The police didn’t see it because she’d hidden it. Afraid of what it might reveal. But she let me see it.’
Grant looked shocked. ‘You mean Becky kept a diary?’ Connor nodded. ‘Good God!’
‘Me too,’ Sellers said. ‘Seems out of character, somehow.’
‘Maybe. But she kept one. And very comprehensive it is too.’
Sellers whistled softly. ‘That could put the cat among a few pigeons.’
‘You say you’ve seen it,’ Grant said. ‘Does that mean you’ve read it?’
‘I’m reading it,’ Connor told him. ‘I’ve got the loan of it. There’s a lot to sort out, but I think it could pay dividends. In itself it can’t prove that the jury’s verdict was wrong, of course. But it seems to throw suspicion in other directions — one in particular — and I hope to show this in my book.’
‘You mean you’ll name names?’
‘Where necessary, yes.’
Grant downed his drink and left. He had guests for lunch, he said, mustn’t be late. Sellers grinned at his departure but made no comment. Connor knew what he was thinking — that Grant was a worried man — and was glad to note that Harry had eavesdropped on the conversation. It would not be long before all the regular customers learned of the existence of the diary and the use Connor intended to make of it — which could mean that Adam Grant would not be alone in his apprehension. There was no certainty that that would react to his advantage but, as Sellers had said, it would at least put the cat among the pigeons. He hoped that some of the pigeons might fly his way.
Tom Lofthouse resembled his name. He was tall and spare, with a long neck and thin lips. His eyes were the most pleasing feature in his appearance: a soft brown, with unusually long lashes for a man. Connor judged him to be about his own age: pushing forty, or perhaps a little older. Like most Felborough people with whom Connor had discussed Becky’s death, Lofthouse rejected the suggestion that Connor might have been wrongfully convicted. ‘You’re wasting your time on that one, Mr. Mallorie,’ Lofthouse said. ‘He killed her, no doubt about that. The only thing wrong with the verdict was that it should have been murder, not manslaughter.’
‘You were at the trial?’ Connor asked.
‘Yes.’ He had a soft, clear voice. ‘I liked Becky. She wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but I liked her. She could be fun.’
‘Well, you may be right. But the thing about wasting time is that often you don’t know it’s been wasted until you’ve done it. So I’ll press on. I’m told you used to drive Becky home occasionally.’
‘We run a taxi service. Anyone wants a taxi they get a taxi. Day or night. Within reason, of course.’
‘Of course. You keep a record of your bookings, I suppose?’ Lofthouse nodded. ‘I’d like to know the last time you drove Becky home. Do you think you could check?’
‘I don’t have to,’ Lofthouse said. ‘I know. It was the night of the murder.’
Connor stared at him. ‘But that’s impossible! I —’ He checked himself. ‘I mean, it was Connor drove her home that night.’
Lofthouse smiled faintly. ‘Not Becky’s murder. Arnold McGuppy’s.’
‘Oh! When was that?’
‘A few weeks earlier. I don’t recollect the date. But it was a Saturday, I know that.’
Woolmer had mentioned a previous murder. Unsolved, Woolmer had said — which was one of the reasons Brummit had been in the doghouse and had looked no further than Connor for a suspect. The two murders would not be connected, of course, but ...
‘What sort of time was it when you drove Becky home that night?’ he asked.
Late, Lofthouse said. Unusually late. Most times when she wanted a lift it was around closing time, but that night it was after midnight. That was how he remembered it was a Saturday. Unless there was an advance booking he packed up at eleven, but on Saturdays there was a train in from Leeds at twenty minutes past midnight and he kept open for a probable fare. Becky had arrived just before the train was due. ‘It doesn’t run now, of course,’ he said. ‘The last train gets in at eleven-thirty.’
‘That’s progress for you,’ Connor said. ‘But it’s a pity you can’t remember the date. It might be significant. I suppose you couldn’t —’
‘No,’ Lofthouse said, ‘I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Mr. Mallorie. But the old ledgers are stored away, and right now I haven’t the time to dig them out. I suggest you try the Gazette. Sixty-seven, wasn’t it?’
‘Sixty-eight.’
‘Yes? Well, anyway, McGuppy’s murder was fully reported in the press, and the Gazette keep copies of all the back numbers. Late August or early September that’s when it happened.’
‘Thanks,’ Connor said. ‘I’ll do that.’ He hesitated. ‘Any objection to telling me your Christian names, Mr. Lofthouse?’
Lofthouse looked puzzled but did not comment. ‘T.W.,’ he said. ‘Thomas Wyatt.’
The offices of the Felborough Gazette were in the old part of the town, not far from the new shopping centre. Compared with most other local weeklies the Gazette was still in its infancy, an assistant told Connor when he brought the relevant files, but already the premises had become inadequate. They planned to move next year, he said: the offices to the High Street, the printing works to a building now nearing completion on Northropp Way, over on the new industrial estate. Connor was impressed. Alec Northropp, it seemed, had become a celebrity.
His interest in the McGuppy murder lay in the date, but he read the report in full. It appeared that on the night of Saturday, August the 24th, Mrs. McGuppy had returned home half an hour after midnight from a visit to the Grand Theatre at Leeds with a party from the Friends of Variety, a local offshoot of the Townswomen’s Guild, to find her husband lying dead on the sitting room floor. Medical evidence indicated that he had been strangled and that death had occurred some time around midnight. There was no sign of forcible entry and no sign of a struggle, which suggested that the killer had been known to his victim. But the reason for the murder was obscure. Nothing had been taken and, according to his wife, the dead man had had no enemies.
The paper then went on to give a brief obituary. Arnold McGuppy was fifty-two, the only son of Alfred and Doris McGuppy, now deceased. For a year after leaving the local Grammar School he had helped his parents in their grocery store, and had then gone to work at the Town Hall, eventually to become Chief Clerk in the Planning Department. In 1947 he had married Elizabeth Dowling, a local girl, and they had bought Number 38, Charles Street, the house in which he died. A quiet, rather sombre man, he took no part in local affairs and tended to shun social activities. But he was a keen follower of the Stock Market, and it was his shrewd handling of investments that had enabled him to retire prematurely only a few months previous to his death.
Connor closed the file and referred to Becky’s diary. On August the 24th, the day on which McGuppy had been murdered, Becky had written, ‘Went with S. Saw B and an 8 later. Could be my lucky day. G drove me home.’ Lofthouse claimed to have driven her home that night, which meant that Lofthouse was G. Yet his initials were T. W. L.
To Connor it didn’t make sense.
Promptly at five o’clock that evening he telephoned the Huddersfield garage and asked for Barker. He’s not here, the manager told him; came in this morning, collected his gear and his wages, and left. Said he had family troubles and would have to pack it in. Do you know his home address? Connor asked. It’s important I get in touch with him. No, the manager said, he did not. Anyway it wouldn’t help. Barker had said he was leaving the town. Going south.
Connor put down the receiver. Why had Main skipped? If Becky and her brother had been as close as someone in The Rivals had claimed, surely he would want to see the real murderer punished? So either he must believe that that task had already been accomplished and that Connor had been trying to trick him into revealing his true identity — either that, or he had told the truth when he denied all knowledge of H and B and feared that, were he to repe
at that denial over the telephone, Connor would not believe him and would go to the police.
Or was there yet another reason? Had Ronald Main considered his sister to be a soft touch and demanded further financial aid when that first twenty pounds was exhausted? Was it not possible that, angry at her refusal to cough up — and her chequebook was witness that she had not — he had waylaid her that night and had tried to bully her into paying? And when she still refused — and from his short acquaintance Connor had the impression that Becky was not the type to respond to bullying — wasn’t it possible that he had killed her and now feared that Connor’s investigation might reveal his guilt?
It was an ugly thought. But then Ronald Main had looked as though he could be a pretty ugly customer.
Chapter 4
Felborough Zoo was small, but well stocked and well designed. Some of the keepers remembered Becky but were vague in their memories; to others she was just a name, known only by the manner of her death. Exton, the assistant head keeper, was the most informative. He had liked Becky. She was unreliable and not particularly good at her job, he said, but she was always cheerful and never at a loss for repartee. ‘And she was fond of the animals,’ Exton said. ‘No, perhaps not fond — interested. Real fascinated, she was, by some of them. You hear people say they find animals more interesting than humans, but few of them mean it. Becky did. Any chance she got she’d be out here watching them. Never bothered with the aviary or the aquarium, but the mammals — well, I reckon she understood them and their habits better than what their keepers did.’ He sighed. ‘Sad about her being killed like that. I know I missed her — quite a lot, really. The place didn’t seem the same without her.’
‘I’m interested in her brother Ron,’ Connor said. He had visited Mrs. Main earlier that morning, hoping for a photograph of Ron to flash around. Mrs. Main had been shocked by his request. They never spoke of him, she said; they hadn’t seen or heard of him in years, it was like he was dead. And there was no photograph. ‘Did he ever visit her here?’