*
At four-thirty, Scott finally gave up trying to write any more that day and he went downstairs to make some coffee. While in the kitchen he heard a car turn into the drive and he hurried through to the dining-room to look through the north facing window. He saw Kelly climb out of a car, adjust the collar of his mackintosh, and walk towards the gate.
When he opened the outside porch door, Kelly said quietly: ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you again, but I’ve some serious news. I’m afraid your wife’s car has been pulled out of the sea: there was no one inside it. We think it went over the edge at Stern Head.’
Shocked, Scott said nothing.
‘May I come in?’ Kelly hung his dripping mackintosh on one of the hooks in the porch, then stepped into the hall. ‘I’m going to have to ask you a whole lot more questions.’
Wordlessly, Scott opened the sitting-room door. At that moment the kettle began to whistle and he went through to the kitchen to switch it off. On his return, he found Kelly was standing in the centre of the room.
‘Mr Scott, was your wife at all depressed when you last saw her?’
‘No,’ he answered thickly.
‘Had you had a row?’
‘No.’
‘Then how would you describe relations between you and your wife on Tuesday morning?’
‘How I described them this morning …’ His voice became clipped. ‘You said no one was in the car. Do you … believe she was in it when it crashed?’
‘I’m very much afraid that for the moment one has to assume that.’
There was a short silence, broken by Kelly. ‘Your wife drove you to the station on Tuesday morning — was she her normal self?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re quite certain?’
‘She may have been slightly on edge, that’s all.’
‘What was the reason for that?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘And when you caught the train on Tuesday you expected her to meet you at the station on Wednesday afternoon?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you returned here, how did you find things — had the post been read, was the milk taken in?’
‘Wednesday’s post was in the porch, where the postman leaves it: the day’s milk was out in the small container by the garage.’
‘Does your wife have her own bank or savings accounts?’
‘She banks at the high street branch of the National Westminster.’
‘Does she have a private income?’
‘Her father left her some money.’
‘Can you tell me whether this was a large amount?’
‘It was about thirty thousand pounds.’
‘I imagine that after I left you in the morning, you rang a number of friends to find out if your wife was staying with them?’
‘Yes.’
‘But without result?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has Mrs Ballentyne had any word from her?’
‘Why bring her name into it?’
‘I wondered if you’d considered the possibility that your wife might have made contact with her?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Where does Mrs Ballentyne live?’
‘In Ferington.’
‘D’you mind giving me her address?’
‘Flat six b, Norwood House. But she doesn’t know anything about Avis.’
‘In a case like this we have to check all possible leads. Please believe me, Mr Scott, I dislike having to ask these questions just as much as you dislike having them asked.’
The detective left almost immediately afterwards. Scott stayed in the sitting-room. Even though he’d ceased to love Avis, it still hurt to think of her as dead.
13
There were three back doors to Tregarth House: for the tradesmen, for the indoor servants, and for the gardeners and grooms. Powell usually used the indoor servants’ entrance, not because of the ironic pleasure this could give him but because it was easy to leave his boots and raincoat in the passage and go straight through to the kitchen.
Judith was stirring the contents of a saucepan which was on the oil-fired Aga. ‘What a terrible day! If this is autumn, I hate to think what winter’s going to be like. Did you manage to finish the field?’
‘Yes.’
She turned. ‘You’re surely not still upset about that phone call?’
‘Of course not,’ he answered irritably. ‘I was worrying about the land and how to get everything done with all this wet.’
She accepted the explanation. ‘By the way, Julian, Mrs French says that the rumour’s going round the village that something’s happened to Avis.’
‘What?’ he said loudly.
‘You startled me! … They say that Avis has been in some sort of very serious car accident. I do hope it isn’t true, but I think you ought to ring Kevin.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s a ridiculous question. To find out if anything has happened to her, of course, and if it has to see how we can help.’
‘It’ll only be one of those absurd rumours which are always going around.’
She spoke sadly. ‘You don’t like helping other people, do you?’
*
Kelly yawned and wondered when was the last time he had managed to be up-to-date with the work? In the old days there had been poverty and hardship and so, except to the very narrow minded, there had been an excuse for much of the crime. But now, when poverty had been virtually abolished, the crime figures seemed forever to increase. A rising standard of living had not brought the contented happiness it should have done …
The detective inspector came into the room. Craven — an unsuitable name for a man of physical and moral courage — was tall and thin, with a hard, lean face. He was a firm disciplinarian who, like Kelly, had little time for the permissive age, but otherwise his standards were different ones. He sat on the edge of the battered desk. ‘How’s the hit-and-run job looking?’
‘We’ve been in contact with every local garage, but none of them report a green Ford Capri with damaged left front: no headlamp units have recently been sold locally.’
‘It was a local car.’
Kelly shrugged his shoulders. The evidence, such as it was, was ambiguous on that point.
‘Keep plugging away.’
They both knew little more time could be given to the case.
‘Anything more on the car which went over Stern Head?’
‘I’m waiting on Vehicle Testing.’
‘Chivvy ’em up on the phone.’
Kellv pushed the telephone across the desk. ‘Rank carries clout. The number’s three six one nine four two, sir.’
The D.I. began to dial. He liked and respected the detective sergeant, even though he had written in Kelly’s confidential report the damning letters N.S.F.P. Not suitable for further promotion. He spoke to a P.C. who tried to plead pressure of work, but he refused to be sidetracked. He listened to what a second man had to say, thanked the other, and rang off. ‘The usual excuses: they’ve a hundred and one vehicles in and half the staff off sick with the plague. But they have managed a superficial examination and there’s one point of interest. The driving door shows marks which suggest something had been used to spring it.’
Kelly began to tap on the desk with his fingers, a habit of his which so annoyed his wife. ‘Forced the door, sent the car on its way, kept the body back for hiding elsewhere. That way there’s no body to cry murder, but there is a very good reason for its absence.’
‘What’s the husband like?’
‘His own worst enemy: smart but unhappy and tries to conceal the fact under a flip manner. He’s a writer. My wife got one of his books out of the library yesterday and began to read it: she says it isn’t the kind of book you want when you’re tired and need to relax.’
‘Was he having trouble with the wife?’
‘Some trouble, yes, but I’ve no idea how much. Incidentally, she was left a bit of money by her father.’
‘What d’you call a bit of money?’
‘Thirty thousand quid.’
‘You’re becoming blasé. If I were left thirty thousand, I’d call myself rich.’
‘Another thing, there’s a second woman around.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘I was keeping her until the report from Vehicle Testing.’
Craven slid off the desk. ‘It’s beginning to sound like a recipe for murder.’
*
Scott parked the car he had had to rent in the council car-park. He bought a pack of cigarettes from a vending machine, then carried on to Norwood House. It was a tower block, but for once the architect had managed to add a sense of grace: additionally, the garden was tended by a man who paid more heed to results than to his hours and so it was usually filled with colour.
He stepped into the recessed entrance and pressed the button for 6b. Jane’s voice, sounding hollow through the speaker, asked him to identify himself.
‘Kevin!’ Her surprise was obvious. There was a quick buzz and the front door opened.
The lift took him to the sixth floor. She had changed into sweater and a pair of slacks and her hair looked as if she had recently been out in the wind. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said, her words mildly reproving.
He stepped into the tiny hall. ‘Something’s cropped up which I decided I had to talk over with you.’
She briefly studied his face, then turned and led the way into the sitting-cum-dining-room. ‘Will you have a drink? The cellar’s very limited, but it can run to sherry or gin with tonic or bitters.’
‘Sherry would be fine.’
She went over to a small sideboard, poured out the drinks, and handed him a glass. ‘You won’t mind if I’m very frank, will you?’ she said, as she sat on a pouf near one of the radiators. ‘I’m always pleased to see you, but I’d rather that if you come here to the flat, you come with Avis. I’m afraid I’m hopelessly old fashioned: but I’ve probably told you that before.’
‘I wouldn’t be here if there weren’t something you need to know about.’
‘Fair enough. And as you’re here, for heaven’s sake grab a seat and stop standing around in a state of frigidity …’ She chuckled. ‘That wasn’t really what I meant to say. Steve always claimed that if it were possible for me to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, I would.’
He sat on one of the arm-chairs. ‘Avis has disappeared.’
‘You mean, she’s left you?’
He shook his head. ‘She’s literally disappeared. And her car went over the cliff at Stern Head and has been recovered from the sea.’
‘Oh, my God!’ she exclaimed.
‘The last time I saw her was when she dropped me at the station on Tuesday and I went up to London for the night. When I returned on Wednesday she should have met me, but didn’t. She didn’t turn up Wednesday night.
‘One of her friends, Fiona Holloway, kept trying to get in touch with her and when she couldn’t she got on to the police.’ His voice sharpened. ‘Fiona’s a pretty sick character and she said some ridiculous things. One of them was that I was having an affair with you.’
Her anger was immediate. ‘How does she dare say such a filthy lie? And who mentioned my name to her? Did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then it was Avis?’
‘I can’t think it could have been anyone else.’
‘Then why should Avis believe we’re having an affair?’
‘God knows! But for some reason, before she disappeared she began to get jealous.’
‘Then she’s just as sick as her friend … I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’ She stood up and went across to the picture window and stared out at the distant countryside. ‘But it makes me furious when people are small and bitchy minded.’
‘The police are trying to find out what’s happened to Avis and a detective questioned me about you. He’s probably going to come here to see you.’
‘Isn’t life wonderful!’ She returned to the pouf and sat, very upright. ‘So I’ll tell him the truth and that’ll knock that story back into the mud where it belongs.’ She picked up her glass and drank, then said: ‘I’m terribly sorry, Kevin, but I’ve been selfish enough to forget for the moment what’s really happened. Maybe Avis’s car was stolen and then sent over the cliff by the yobbos who pinched it. That sort of thing seems to be happening all the time these days.’
‘If so, she’d have reported the car stolen.’
‘Then she …’ She shook her head. ‘No, it’s unkind to try to paint a better picture than the facts do. I learned that when Steve died. So all I’ll say is, I hope it’s not as serious as it looks. Or if it is …’ She paused, then said in a rush: ‘That it’s not going to hurt as much as it might have done.’
‘Thanks.’
‘For implying something that is none of my business? Life can get very off-balance can’t it?’ She abruptly changed the conversation.
14
Once a month, the detective chief superintendent at county H.Q. held a conference which had to be attended by all the detectives of the rank of detective inspector and above. A forum of ideas and suggestions, he called it. The forum tended to be restricted to his ideas and his suggestions.
At the end of the conference, Craven left the main building and made his way round to a second and much smaller one, attached by a covered way, which housed the vehicle section. On the ground floor was a large inspection area, with hoist and pit, lit by a battery of strip lights. A van, parked over the pit, was being examined by a couple of men in overalls. He edged his way past them and went into a small, cluttered office in which a uniform sergeant was typing.
‘Have you anything more yet on the Jaguar that went over Stern Head?’ Craven asked.
The sergeant searched through a pile of reports and found the one he wanted: he passed it across.
Craven read. The car had been crushed after falling from a great height on to rocks … Small pieces of wood, some painted white, had been wedged into the bonnet grille … A three parts empty bottle of whisky had survived the fall … A thread of material had been caught on the trailing edge of the driving door … Marks on the pillar and driving door suggested pressure had been applied, perhaps to spring the door …
A uniform inspector hurried into the office. ‘Hullo, Tom, how’s life?’ Not waiting for an answer, he said to the sergeant: ‘Where’s all the guff on the caravan?’
‘Forwarded to A division, sir.’
‘I’ve just had ’em moaning like hell because they haven’t got it.’
The telephone rang and the sergeant answered the call.
The inspector sighed as he brushed the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘If I’m not growing a crop of ulcers, I’m a bloody medical miracle.’ He went round behind the second desk and slumped down in the chair.
Craven tapped the sheet of paper in his hand. ‘This Jaguar which went over Stern Head — what’s it add up to?’
The inspector said heavily: ‘It’s all written down there. The door was sprung, probably with a jack, before the crash. The automatic gear shift was set at drive, but the lights weren’t switched on … Any idea of the time of day when the car went over?’
‘Not before dark Tuesday night and not after eight-fifteen, Wednesday morning.’
‘If it was dark, those lights could be significant.’ Craven spoke slowly. ‘You’d have to be either crazy or tight, wouldn’t you, to move a car up there without lights on? Has Dabs been over the wreck?’
‘Yes, but his report’s not through yet. I had a quick word with him, though, and he says there are no prints on the steering wheel or the bottle though there were smudges on both, perhaps from gloves.’
Mrs Scott presumably wore gloves from time to time, thought Craven, but normally the bottle would not have been handled in gloved hands unless, perhaps, she had picked it up on her way to the car. But in those circumstances one would expect to fi
nd the finger-prints of past handlings.
‘One last thing,’ said the inspector. ‘That short length of thread, caught in the edge of the car door, is probably from a tweedy coat containing a reddish brown colour.’
‘All right if I take it back with me?’
‘Just so long as you sign for it.’ He spoke to the sergeant. ‘Get the thread for Mr Craven, but don’t let him out of your sight until he’s signed a U four.’
*
Scott pushed the chair free of the table, stood up, and crossed to the window. If only the uncertainty would end.
The phone rang and he went downstairs.
‘Is she there?’
He immediately recognised the croaking voice of Fiona Holloway. ‘I’m afraid she hasn’t come back and her car’s been found in the sea after going over Stern Head.’
‘You’ve murdered her,’ she shouted.
‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. And why …’
‘You won’t get away with it. D’you understand that?’ She cut the connexion.
He replaced the receiver, knowing a dull, sick sense of despair as he did so. Why was hatred often so much stronger and more enduring an emotion than love? Hatred seldom changed, love often did. Fiona had hated him from the day she’d first met him: he had initially loved Avis, yet soon that love had turned into a cynical resignation.
*
Kelly stood in the car park of Stern Head and watched the council workmen nail into position the last crosspiece of timber to complete the repairs to the rails. They collected up their tools and bundled together a number of pieces of wood, some of them nearly four feet long. That wood would never be returned to stores, Kelly knew: petty dishonesty had become a way of life. Yet petty dishonesty so often paved the way to serious dishonesty … What the hell! He’d soon be retiring on a pension and then he could grow championship roses and let the world go to hell in whichever way it wanted.
The workmen crossed to their van, climbed in, and drove off. Kelly walked down to the railings and then, with all the dread of a lifelong altophobe, he ducked under the lowest rail. As he studied the ground between the rails and the edge of the cliff a gust of wind, not particularly strong, forced him to readjust his balance. By mistake he looked beyond the cliff edge to the sea, a million miles below. He suffered an attack of giddiness which left him breathless. Why in the goddamn hell, he wondered despairingly, hadn’t he sent one of the D.C.s along instead of being so pig-headedly determined to check for himself?
A Recipe for Murder Page 6