by J F Straker
‘When were they married?’ he asked.
In 1964, Alison said, just three months after they met. Susan was twenty, her father fifty-four. On her father’s part it was a complete infatuation with, and surrender to, the charms of a beautiful and sensually exciting young woman; but right from the start Alison had been suspicious of Susan’s reasons for accepting his proposal. ‘Father wasn’t wealthy — not the way you and I see wealth — but he was wealthy to Susan. I doubt if her old man had ever earned more than twenty pounds a week. And Father held an important position in the town. Married to him she would mix with people she would never otherwise have met.’
‘Like Alec Northropp, eh?’ Connor said.
She looked puzzled. ‘Why single him out?’
‘A train of thought. Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise,’ she said. ‘It’s your party.’
At first her father had been deliriously happy, she said. Susan too had seemed more than content. But not so Alison, for she had known that her father was living in a fool’s paradise. Susan was content because everything she wanted — clothes, jewellery, her own car — were hers as soon as she expressed a wish. But Alison had known it could not last. At the rate they were living either her father would soon be ruined or he would come to his senses and clamp down on the expenditure — in which case Susan would probably leave him. Either eventuality would break him, physically as well as financially; and because she could do nothing to avert the disaster and did not want to be around when it happened, Alison had left home. ‘Sooner or later I’d have gone anyway,’ she said. ‘Susan would have seen to that. We were rivals for his affection, and she wanted me out while she was still on top.’
‘You were wrong, though, weren’t you?’ Connor said. ‘He didn’t go broke and she didn’t leave him.’
‘She didn’t leave him because somehow or other he managed to keep spending, although God knows where he found the money. They were living way above his salary. Honestly, too; no funny business. He even bought that mansion out at Beston; she said their home was poky and she’d always wanted to live in the country. Susan sold it shortly after he died. I don’t know what she got for it. But I see it’s up for sale again, and they’re asking £45,000.’
They were silent while the waiter filled their glasses. Connor welcomed the interruption. Alison Fitt might be puzzled by her dead father’s ability to live so extravagantly, but to Connor the answer seemed obvious. To a man in George Fitt’s position there would have been subtler and more profitable ways of making money on the side than by cooking the books or rifling the till. Architects, builders, contractors — Alec Northropp, for instance — would have been eager to line his pockets in return for his support. Connor found the thought encouraging. The brick wall that had hitherto barred his progress could be crumbling.
‘I spent Christmas with them that year,’ Alison said when the waiter had gone. ‘That was when I knew for certain that the marriage had gone sour on Father. He had aged considerably — there were lines in his face that should never have been there — and he seemed nervous and edgy. And he had started drinking. But Susan seemed cheerful enough. Surprisingly amiable, too. I suppose she had ceased to see me as a possible threat.’
‘Was Northropp friendly with them then?’ Connor asked.
‘Because of Susan, you mean?’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I saw him at the house once or twice, but I assumed his visits were more business than social. Why do you ask?’
She did not seem greatly surprised when Connor told her of meeting Susan in Northropp’s flat. By 1968 Northropp had already started to make his mark in the town; he was a man of the future, her father belonged to the past. ‘She was looking ahead, getting on the bandwagon before some other commercially minded female beat her to it.’ Alison grimaced. ‘Or am I being catty? She could have been in love with him, I suppose. She never loved Father, or she wouldn’t have harassed him the way she did.’
‘Do you think your father knew of the affair? Was that why he started drinking?’
‘I doubt it. Not then. Otherwise he’d never have let Northropp set foot in the house.’
‘The evening I met your father — the night Becky Main was killed — he and I had a few drinks with Northropp in the bar downstairs. He left early, though; it was Arthurs’ Night, he said. You know about Arthurs’ Night?’
‘Who in Felborough doesn’t?’
‘I understood he was leaving to take his wife to the dinner. But yesterday I looked up the relevant file in the local rag, and their names weren’t on the list of those present.’
‘No?’ She shrugged. ‘That doesn’t surprise me. He never went with Mother. The women were mostly old, and he liked them young. It was Susan who persuaded him to go.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought it was her style.’
‘It wasn’t. But she wanted to be seen in the right company.’
‘Well, she missed out that night, apparently. I wonder why.’
‘Father probably dug in his heels for once. If you must know, ask Susan.’
Connor grinned. That could be embarrassing. By now Northropp might have revealed Connor’s true identity, and Susan would remember that he had seen her naked in Northropp’s flat while she was still married to Fitt. Or wasn’t she the type to be embarrassed? And another thought: How would Northropp react when she told him, as presumably she would, that Connor had questioned her about that particular night? Both might have supposed that he was unaware of her previous marriage. Would Northropp resent his knowledge?
They moved to the lounge for coffee. ‘Is the inquisition over?’ Alison asked, pouring. ‘It’s nearly ten minutes since the last question. Black or white?’
‘Black, please.’ He took the cup from her and added sugar. ‘No, I’m not through with you yet. Did you know Arnold McGuppy?’
‘Of course. He worked in Father’s office.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Difficult to say. Apart from one occasion we met only when I visited the office. He never took much notice of me; just muttered a greeting and that was that. I don’t think he liked me. Come to that, I don’t think he liked anyone much. I’m sure he didn’t like Father.’
‘What makes you say that?’
She shrugged. ‘Just an impression. I can’t give you chapter and verse.’
‘When was the one occasion you saw him away from the office?’
It had been late in 1967, she said, when she was spending a weekend with Susan and her father. McGuppy had called at the house on the Sunday evening, and when the maid announced him — ‘Yes, they had a maid. That was another of Susan’s extravagances’ — her father had obviously been annoyed. Yet his tone had changed when she heard him talking to McGuppy in the hall. She had not heard what was said, but there was no hint of annoyance. Not on Father’s part, anyway. McGuppy didn’t sound too pleased.’
‘Do you know why he called?’
‘No. Father didn’t say.’
Connor thought he could make an educated guess. ‘You say they bought a house out at Beston,’ he said. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Oakwood. You know, you ask the most extraordinary questions. They can’t all be relevant.’
‘Possibly not. But asking questions has become a habit.’
‘Well, now it’s my turn. You say you lodged fifty pounds in notes behind a notice on the church door last night. Did you remember to collect it?’
He gaped at her. ‘Good Lord!’
‘You didn’t, eh? Well, easy come, easy go.’
‘There’s no easy come about me,’ he protested. ‘A few quid in the bank, no job and no prospects. That’s me. But I had a real hammering last night, and this morning — well, I’d a lot on my mind.’
‘I’m sure you had.’ She opened her bag, studied her face in the mirror, and seemed satisfied with what she saw. ‘Now I must be going. Thanks for the dinner, James. I hope I gave good value.’
‘Your company was value enough,’ h
e told her. ‘The information was all bonus.’
‘Thank you. Do I give you a lift to the church? Or will you leave it till tomorrow?’
He accepted the lift, but the trip was wasted; both the money and the notice had gone. ‘Damn!’ Connor said. ‘I wonder who took it?’
‘Someone connected with the church,’ Alison suggested. ‘A thief wouldn’t have bothered with the notice.’ She laughed. ‘The vicar will assume it was conscience money. He will probably mention it in the parish magazine. Or were you thinking of asking him to return it?’
Connor shook his head. ‘I’ll let it ride,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Maybe someone up top will chalk it to my credit.’
Chapter 7
Susan Northropp was in an expansive mood when he called on her the next morning. There was no need for further pretence, she said, her husband had told her his real identity. Connor should not feel bad about that. Husband and wife were supposed to be one, weren’t they? So Alec had not really broken his promise.
Connor said he didn’t feel bad at all. More like relieved. ‘I used an alias because I thought I’d get more co-operation that way. People talk to journalists. If they had known I was Connor they would probably have given me the bird. Everyone here seems to believe I killed that woman. Which I didn’t, of course.’
She smiled. ‘Of course. But you can’t really blame them, Mr. Connor. If the court decided you were guilty, then you were guilty. That’s how most people reason, isn’t it?’
‘Do you?’
The smile widened. Her teeth were white and even.
‘I’m one of the uncommitted. For the present, anyway. Tell me — how are you feeling this morning?’
‘Sore. But I’m off the critical list.’
‘Good. And thank you for the flowers.’ She rang for coffee. ‘I suppose I should apologise for not recognising you yesterday. But if memory serves me right you hadn’t a beard the last time we met. And you’ve lost weight, haven’t you? Anyway, it was a long time ago. And our meeting was — well, brief, to say the least.’
‘Too brief for me,’ Connor said.
‘Thank you. But at the time I was still married to my first husband. Did you know I’d been married before?’
‘Yes. To George Fitt. I met him.’
‘That’s right, you did. I remember, Alec told me. So you can see that Alec’s flat was an unfortunate place for a married woman to be caught in a state of — was I completely nude?’
‘Not completely, no.’
‘But nude enough not to hang about, eh?’
The recollection did not seem to embarrass her. Connor was not greatly surprised; he remembered that, despite her astonishment at seeing him in Northropp’s flat, before disappearing into the bedroom there had been a gleam in her eye that suggested she found his obvious admiration gratifying. And why not? She had reason to be proud of her body, and nudity itself was not shameful. Alison had pictured her as a scheming, mercenary wanton who had married George Fitt for his money. Well, maybe that had been true then; but if so, marriage to Northropp had apparently softened her. Perhaps she really was in love with her husband. Or perhaps wealth and its attributes had brought contentment. Whatever the cause, there was about her now an air of quiet serenity, of easy friendliness, that enchanted Connor.
‘May I ask a personal question?’ he said, with uncustomary diffidence.
‘Why not? I don’t have to answer.’
‘Had you and Alec been lovers for long?’
She had been attracted to him, she said frankly, almost from their first meeting, but it was not until the spring of 1968 that they had become lovers. She had never loved George; she had been fond of him but she had never loved him. Not as she loved Alec. ‘It was terribly sad that George should be killed like that,’ she said. ‘I was dreadfully upset. Yet at the same time, deep down, I experienced a sort of relief. I mean, it solved all our problems.’
‘Oh? How come?’
‘Alec wanted to marry me, I wanted to marry Alec. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask George for a divorce. I knew how much it would hurt him. Anyway, he would probably have refused.’ She sighed. ‘Poor George! He was terribly possessive.’ The maid brought coffee. When they were alone again Susan said quietly, ‘I’ve no objection to discussing my past, Mr. Connor, but I fail to see how it can possibly concern you.’
‘I know. It’s just that — well, anything that happened that night concerns me. Or could do.’
‘Oh?’ She did not need to ask what night. ‘Including my being with Alec?’
‘In a way. You’ve probably forgotten, but it happened to be Arthurs’ Night. You know?’ She nodded. ‘Well, after leaving the flat Alec and I met your husband, and we had a few drinks together at the Malt House.’ Another nod. ‘When your husband left it was with the expressed intention of taking you to the dinner. Yet neither of you are listed in the local rag as among those present.’ Connor paused. ‘Can you remember why you didn’t go?’
‘Didn’t we?’ Her brow puckered as she considered. Then she smiled. ‘No, that’s right, we didn’t. I told George I didn’t feel up to it.’
‘Really? If you’ll forgive my saying so, you looked the picture of health and beauty a few hours previously.’
‘Appearances can lie, Mr. Connor. A woman always looks her best when she is with her lover. Or tries to.’ Remembering the coffee, she started to pour. ‘However, I admit I didn’t exactly level with George. I was a bit off colour, yes. But I had a stronger reason than that for not going.’
‘Such as what?’
Alec had rung from the hotel, she said, to warn her that her husband had invited Connor to lunch the following day and to ensure that the invitation was withdrawn. So she had feigned illness and had maintained the pretence the next morning. ‘I told George I wasn’t up to entertaining,’ she said. ‘As it turned out, though, I needn’t have bothered, need I?’
‘You mean because I didn’t stay overnight?’
‘Yes. Though of course we didn’t know that until George rang the hotel.’ She eyed him quizzically. ‘How would you have reacted, I wonder, if you had come to lunch and had found that George’s wife was the woman you’d seen in Alec’s flat?’
Connor smiled. ‘I’d have been surprised, of course. But I wouldn’t have given you away. Bad for business.’
‘With Alec, you mean?’
‘Yes.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘What did your husband do that evening, Mrs. Northropp?’
‘I’ve no idea. Went out for a meal, probably. I heard the car leave.’
‘When did he return?’
‘I can’t help you there either, I’m afraid. We had separate rooms.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, no! You’re not thinking George might have killed that poor woman, are you? That’s impossible. Quite impossible.’
‘Just casting around,’ Connor said. ‘One does when one’s stuck.’
He wasn’t stuck. Everything Alison Fitt had said pointed to an almost inevitable conclusion: that her father had accepted bribes in return for contracts, that McGuppy had discovered the corruption and had embarked on blackmail, and that Fitt had killed him. It did not necessarily follow that he had also killed Becky; but the entries in the diary suggested it and Susan Northropp had shown that he had had the opportunity. Proof, however, remained remote. Alec Northropp, with his contracts for the shopping centre and the industrial estate, must almost certainly have been involved in the bribery; but to admit it would be to invite a criminal charge, and Northropp was not the man to do that. And why should he? George Fitt was dead; he could not be brought to trial. Why should Northropp destroy himself merely to put the record straight?
On his way back to the hotel Connor stopped off at Godman’s Garage to renew the car hire for another week. Lofthouse had his feet up in the office, reading a newspaper. Connor added an extra pound to the hire charge. ‘That’s for looking up an old ledger,’ he said. Not too busy, are you?’
Lofthouse removed his feet from the table. ‘Wha
t old ledger?’
‘I want to know if Alec Northropp rang for a taxi on September the 18th, 1968, and later cancelled it?’
‘Why?’
‘Just curiosity,’ Connor said. ‘Can you oblige?’
Lofthouse obliged. The information did not take long to elicit and was as Connor had supposed: there had been no telephone calls from Northropp. So the call he had made from the Malt House, ostensibly for a taxi, had been the one warning Susan of her husband’s invitation.
‘Important, was it?’ Lofthouse asked, obviously intrigued.
‘Not important,’ Connor said truthfully. ‘Just tidying a loose end.’
As he came through the swing door of the hotel he paused. Brummit was at the reception desk, talking to the girl. She pointed when she saw Connor, and Brummit turned. Connor grinned maliciously. Brummit looked cross, and that pleased him.
‘Well, well!’ Connor said. ‘Come to confess your mistake, Superintendent? Good man. You’ll feel better when you’ve got it off your chest.’
‘Cut the funny stuff, Connor,’ Brummit snapped. ‘I’m told you were beaten up Thursday night. Is that true?’
‘You needn’t look so pleased,’ Connor said. ‘Yes, it’s true. Who told you?’
‘The hotel manager. Why didn’t you report it?’
‘I could give you several reasons,’ Connor said. ‘Let’s just say I’ve lost faith.’
‘Faith? Faith in what?’
‘In British justice. In you and your lot. Particularly you, Brummit. Do you blame me? Six years in the nick was a heavy price to pay for your damned incompetence. Or maybe it wasn’t incompetence. Maybe I was framed, eh?’
Almost wearily, Brummit nodded. ‘You’re welcome to your obsession, Connor. Personally, I find it rather boring. But let’s get back to Thursday night. What were you doing in the churchyard?’