Death Speaks Softly

by Anthea Fraser

  'OK, Chris, I'll stand in for you, but I hope their bloke speaks French.'

  'You might think, Ken,' Webb said in the car back to Shillingham, 'that DI Ledbetter should be modelling knitwear, but don't underestimate him. It's a mistake a lot of people make.'

  The sergeant, with his thinning, sandy hair, grinned. 'I wish I had his problems!'

  'They're real enough. People aren't inclined to take him seriously with looks like that, so he has to work twice as hard to win them round. But he's a great bloke and a first-class police officer.'

  Jackson was thinking of his words as he turned into his driveway and garaged the car. The sound of children's voices came from the back garden, and his spirits rose as they always did. Wherever he'd spent the day and whatever he'd been doing, Ken Jackson loved coming home. With his doorkey in his hand, knowing Millie and the kids awaited him, he wouldn't change places with anyone—even DI Ledbetter, he thought with a grin.

  As the garage door clanged down, Paul and Vicky erupted through the side gate, hurling themselves against him, and shouting above each other to impart their news of the day. The commotion brought their grandmother out of the house.

  'That's quite enough, you two. Quieten down and let your father draw breath. In you come, Ken, the kettle's just boiled.'

  'How's Millie?' he asked, following her into the house.

  'No change. I think she'll be glad, now, when it's over. Go in and see her while I pour your tea. And you children, back into the garden till I give you a call.'

  Jackson smiled at her, grateful for the kindly control she exercised over his children while their mother was laid up. He'd never understood the traditional dislike men had for their mothers-in-law. Mrs Banks, rounded and motherly, with her fair hair fading almost unnoticeably into grey, looked as he imagined Millie in thirty years' time, and he loved her accordingly.

  He opened the living-room door quietly, in case Millie was asleep. She was on the sofa with her feet up, but she turned with a smile and held out her hand. He came quickly to take it, bending to kiss her.

  'OK, love?'

  'OK, yes. How about you? What kind of a day have you had?'

  He drew up a chair and sat beside her. 'Well, as you know, we went haring off to Steeple Bayliss. Some French kid's gone missing, and everyone's running round in circles.' He grinned, knowing she loved to hear the details of his day. 'You should have seen the DI over there. Wow! Robert Redford has nothing on him!'

  Millie laughed. 'Really? Tell me more.'

  'Mr Webb reckons he's a good egg, but he looks like a film star—yellow hair, purple eyes, flashing smile.'

  'And he can't find his missing persons without you?'

  'Well, he's broke his ankle, see, and can't get out of the office.'

  His mother-in-law came into the room, and Jackson brought a table across for her to set down the tray. Beyond the French windows he could see the kids. Paul was half way up an apple tree, Vicky dancing about beneath it. Please God the next two would be as healthy. It had been a shock when Millie's pregnancy was diagnosed as twins. Still, she was a born mother, bless her, and now Vicky was at school things shouldn't be too hectic.

  'Did you see the doctor today?' he asked.

  'No, I'm going tomorrow, to have my blood pressure checked. If it's still up, I might have to go in early.'

  'Well, everything's under control here,' her mother said comfortingly. 'You've nothing to worry about, has she, Ken?'

  'Not a thing. All you have to do is produce the nippers and take things easy.'

  Millie said casually, 'Going back to SB tomorrow?'

  'Might.' Jackson was equally off hand, knowing full well he would be. 'Still, you've got the number, love, and I can be back within an hour if you want me.'

  'Yes, of course.' Smiling determinedly, Millie accepted her cup of tea.

  At about the same time, Beryl Warwick popped round next door. Claire, who had parted from her only half an hour earlier on their return from Melbray, was surprised to see her.

  'Have you heard the news?' Beryl began excitedly before she was even inside the house. 'The police have been up at the university all day. Apparently some French girl's disappeared, and they're interviewing everyone who knows her.'

  Claire stared at her, her eyes widening in distress. 'Not Arlette, surely?'

  The interruption stopped Beryl in mid-flow. 'Yes, that's the name. Do you know her?'

  'But, Beryl, are you sure? There can't be some mistake?'

  'No, Arlette Picard. Bernard's just been telling me about it.'

  'But she's a friend of Simon's!' Claire said helplessly.

  'Really?' Beryl's long nose quivered with excitement. 'He must know about it, I suppose?'

  'I don't know. He phoned on Tuesday, just before you came, to ask if she'd been in touch. He was expecting to meet her in Shillingham and she hadn't arrived.'

  'And she's not been seen since!' Beryl reported with relish.

  'I'll phone Simon.' Claire turned distractedly into the sitting-room and Beryl followed her, waiting eagerly as Claire dialled. 'Oh, darling, you are back. Thank goodness! Beryl is here, with a most disturbing story about Arlette. Do you know anything?' She listened, her face grave. 'But, Simon, that's dreadful! Do you think something's happened to her? . . . Yes, I see . . . Oh, poor souls! How terrible for them. Well, do keep me in touch. Having met her, I shall be worrying.'

  'Well?' Beryl inquired. 'Who are the poor-souls?'

  'The girl's parents—they're coming over. What on earth can have happened to her, Beryl?'

  'Search me. I knew about the parents; Bernard's meeting their train. They've been booked in at the White Swan.'

  'Imagine how they must be feeling.'

  'Yes.' Beryl hesitated, but having imparted her bombshell, she'd nothing else to offer. 'Well, I must get back. I left the potatoes on, but I thought you'd like to know. Not that I realized you'd met the girl, or that she's Simon's girlfriend.'

  'But she isn't,' Claire contradicted automatically. 'He doesn't know her well.'

  Only after Beryl had gone did she analyse that response, and was frightened by its implications. If, God forbid, something had happened to Arlette, any boyfriends would be the first to be questioned. But Simon was in the police, for heaven's sake! Surely that made a difference? Was he really fond of her, as Sarah wondered? Quite suddenly, in her sunlit sitting-room and for the first time in her life, Claire Marshbanks felt under threat. It was with overwhelming relief that she heard her husband's key in the door.

  CHAPTER 3

  By 10.15 the next morning, Webb and Jackson were back in Steeple Bayliss with the list of names Sophie'd given Marshbanks. For the most part they were Christian names only—Steve, Mike, Charlie, and so on. Two others were more promising—Dr Lightbody and Mr Duncan, but Sophie was uncertain whether Arlette had spoken of them in the context of work or leisure.

  They stopped first at the police station, where Webb handed over the list. 'Perhaps your men could start on the unattached names, Chris; they may take some tracking down. I'll call on Lightbody and Duncan, along with Professor Warwick, but I want to see the landlady first. Could I borrow a street map?'

  Ledbetter produced one from his desk. 'Farthing Lane's just above the High Street and parallel with it. Ten minutes' walk. I'd advise leaving the car here till you go to the university; parking can be tricky in the town centre.'

  On arrival at Farthing Lane, Webb found only Mrs King at home. Her daughter Iris was at the Library, where she worked. 'Go and have a word with her, Ken,' Webb instructed. 'I'll join you in a few minutes. Miss Picard might confide in someone her own age.'

  'Yes, she and Iris do chat sometimes,' Mrs King agreed. Her eyes filled with tears. 'Oh dear, Chief Inspector, I hope she's all right.'

  'So do we, Mrs King.' He nodded to Jackson, and followed the woman into the front room. Its decor would have been ultra-modern in the 'sixties—stark white walls and blue woodwork. Uncomfortable-looking chairs were positioned on
the carpet, and a carved animal of unknown species stood in the centre of the mantelpiece.

  'Now, just a few details, Mrs King, to put me in the picture.' Webb spoke easily, to help her relax. 'How long has Miss Picard been with you?'

  'Since October, when she came to the university. She's a nice girl, no trouble at all.' Led by Webb, she repeated her account of her last sight of Arlette. 'I thought how fresh and pretty she looked. She'd bought the skirt and top the day before, from Next, and the colouring really suited her.'

  Arlette had dressed in her best clothes. For Simon Marshbanks, or for someone else, earlier?

  'You say you expected her to be away overnight. Did she take her toothbrush and night-things?'

  Mrs King put a hand to her mouth. 'Do you know, I never thought to look.' She excused herself and hurried from the room.

  'You're right, Chief Inspector, she did!' she exclaimed on her return. 'Fancy me not thinking of that!' 'She took a suitcase, then?'

  'No, just the large shoulder-bag she usually wore.' 'What about her passport?'

  'I saw it just now, when I checked in her drawer. All her other things are still there.'

  So although an overnight stay at Shillingham had been in mind, Arlette hadn't contemplated a longer absence. 'Do you know if she'd any contacts outside the university?'

  'She did some private coaching, in French.'

  Webb took out his notebook. 'Where?'

  'The Morgans in Tewkesbury Close on Mondays, and the Palfry twins on Thursdays. They live in Westfield Road.'

  Webb noted it down. 'Anyone else she saw?'

  'She's been out a couple of times with the Campbell boy next door, and Simon Marshbanks too, I think.' She paused. 'But you'll know about that.'

  Her tone held a veiled question, but Webb ignored it. 'Did she talk about them at all?'

  'Not really. She did say, "Imagine! Little Simon a flic! It's bizarre!" That's a favourite word of hers.'

  Little Simon. Had she meant in height or years? Marshbanks was stocky, and though not really short, might appear so to a tall girl in high heels. As to his youth, his fresh complexion made him look younger than he was.

  'Has she had any problems that you know of?' Mrs King shook her head. 'And her health's good?'

  'She did have an upset last week. Stayed in for two days. Her liver, she said it was, but it seemed like a bilious attack to me.'

  'Nothing serious, though?'

  'Oh no.'

  'What does she do in her spare time? Has she any hobbies?'

  'She's horse-mad. Goes to the stables in Wagon Lane two or three times a week. And she plays tennis sometimes, with Peter Campbell.'

  Though he stayed a few more minutes, Mrs King had little else to contribute. The interview over, Webb set out for the Library to rejoin Jackson, hoping he might have done better with the daughters And it was as he turned the corner on to the High Street that he came face to face with Hannah. His own shock was mirrored on her face, but there was no polite way she could avoid him—and Hannah was always polite.

  'Hannah!' He caught her arm in a subconscious attempt to detain her. 'What on earth are you doing here?'

  'Hello, David.' Her breathing was uneven, but her grey eyes held his as steadily as ever. 'I might ask you the same.'

  'Official business. A girl missing from the university.'

  'I've been up there, too. I brought three of the Lower Sixth to look round before filling in their UCCA forms.'

  'Have you time for a coffee?'

  'Oh, I'm afraid I—'

  'There's a cafe just along here.' He propelled her firmly down the pavement, giving her no chance of further protest. His mind was in a turmoil, planning and instantly discarding what he could say to her. It wasn't until they were seated that he remembered Jackson waiting at the Library. Well, he'd just have to kick his heels for another ten minutes; this unlooked-for opportunity couldn't be lost.

  She looked lovely, he thought, slim and immaculate in a grey linen suit, her tawny hair shining. He smiled at her, but she didn't respond; merely met his eyes gravely, and waited.

  'It's been a long time,' he said quietly.

  'Yes.' She wasn't going to help him.

  'You'd think that, living in the same building, we'd bump into each other.'

  She didn't reply, confirming his conclusion that she had taken evasive action. The waitress brought the coffee he'd ordered, and he waited till she moved away. Then he said gently, 'How have you been, Hannah?'

  'Fine.' There was a defiant ring to the word.

  He started to speak but, perhaps fearing he was going to broach personal subjects, she forestalled him. 'Tell me about the missing girl. When did she disappear?'

  So be it. In any event, the Rest Awhile was hardly the place for intimate discussion. So he told her about Arlette and that he was due to meet her parents that afternoon.

  'That will be difficult. I hope you have some good news by then.'

  'Good news is in short supply at the moment.' He swallowed the coffee quickly, feeling it scorch his tongue. 'I must go, Sergeant Jackson's waiting for me.' He signalled the waitress, paid the bill and got to his feet.

  'Thanks for the coffee,' she said.

  'A pleasure. It's—good to see you again.' He walked quickly across the room and pushed his way through the door. Had he looked back, he'd have seen that her eyes, following him, were full of tears.

  Jackson was pacing up and down outside the Library. His face cleared when he caught sight of Webb.

  'Sorry,' Webb said. 'Unavoidable delay.'

  'Not a very fruitful exercise, Guv. The girls aren't close. I get the impression Arlette boasts a bit about her conquests, but no new names came up.'

  Webb grunted, trying to wrench his mind off Hannah. 'I've got the address of two families she coaches. We'll follow them up later, and the stables she goes to. In the meantime we'll collect the car and get up to the university.'

  Edna was seated at the kitchen table, polishing silver and keeping up an endless stream of chatter. Claire had been edging towards the door for the last ten minutes, but had not yet managed to escape.

  'So I said to her, "Mrs Davis, if you ask me, you brought it on yourself." "What do you mean, Edna?" she goes. "Well," I says, "just think what you let her get away with.

  Stands to reason," I says, "she thinks she's got a free hand. After all—'"

  Claire switched off, depending on intermittent nods of agreement to disguise her inattention. It was a unique relationship she shared with Edna, going back to the summer they were both ten years old, and the shy, thin child had watched her playing on her swing. As a result, Edna had a certain licence; reprimands had to be couched in such diplomatic language that Tom maintained only an expert in lateral thinking would realize one had been administered. A verbatim reporter, Edna was convinced of Claire's innate interest in all she said and did, and Claire hadn't the heart to disillusion her. Consequently, unless she made some excuse and left the house as soon as Edna arrived, Tuesday and Friday mornings were a write-off.

  "'—and if you don't put your foot down," I says, "you mark my words, Mrs Davis, your Sandra'll be no better than that flighty young French miss they're all looking for, and you wouldn't want that, now would you?"'

  Claire's attention snapped back. 'What did you say?'

  Edna paused gratefully for breath, pushing her glasses into position with a polish-blackened finger. 'Well, Miss Claire, I felt it was time to speak plain. That young Sandra needs her bottom spanking, if you ask me.'

  'The French girl,' Claire interrupted. 'You know about her?'

  'It's in all the papers, isn't it? Of course, I hope no harm comes to her, but carrying on like that she was asking for it, in my opinion.'

  Claire was very still. 'Carrying on like what?'

  Edna sniffed. 'No better than she should be, if you ask me. I've seen her several times around the town, always with a different lad in tow. Oh, she looked proper enough, I grant you—except when she was in t
he car that time.'

  'What car? When?'

  'Lord love us, Miss Claire, how do I know? A week or two back, at least.' 'Where was the car?'

  'In Farthing Lane, just up from Mrs King's.'

  Claire's mouth was dry. Simon's car? Her brief panic subsided. No, Simon's car was distinctive, to say the least, and Edna knew it well. An ancient and battered sports car in several shades of green, Sarah had christened it The Hesperus, and the name stuck. It was safe to ask, 'Did you see who the man was?'

  Edna sniffed again, disapproval on her face. 'I've got better things to do than spy on courting couples. Anyway, I could only see the back of his head—though come to think of it, he'd got a bald patch on top. I remember thinking he was older than her usual. Shouldn't be surprised if he was married.'

  Was the information worth passing to Simon? It sounded very vague.

  'Anyway,' Edna continued, reverting to her original theme, 'you don't expect any different of foreigners, but you don't want a local girl to go that way, do you?'

  Claire hoped devoutly that Edna's opinion of local girls would never be diminished. 'No,' she agreed prudently, 'you certainly don't.'

  The campus of Broadshire University was landscaped to take advantage of its unique position. From the main Bridge Road, a long driveway wound through rows of trees, with frequent paths leading off signposted to different Halls of Residence—West Park, Avon, Somerset. As they drove, they continually passed groups of students with satchels and bundles of books under their arms, making their way either to or from the main faculty buildings. Eventually the avenue of trees opened into a large space like the centre of a village.

  'Doesn't mention the French Department,'Jackson said, peering at the different arms of the signpost.